


The Lady and the Ghost

by Glamis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, angst & fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7495929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glamis/pseuds/Glamis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Sansa's realationship, following the events of "Battle of the Bastards" and "Winds of Winter".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bitter Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! At the beginning I'd like to note that english is my second language, so this probably won't be linguisticly perfect. Please feel free to point out any mistakes. This is my first Jon x Sansa fanfiction and I hope you'll like it!

 “Jon.”

 He turned slowly to face her, shoulders down, fully aware that his posture was probably giving away the weariness and resignation he felt. He didn’t look like a man who had just won a battle – he knew that _he_ certainly hadn’t. It was difficult to look at her at the moment – a phantom of mistrust and secrets was lingering between them and it was all too difficult to comprehend, escpecially considering that he had failed in a way she warned him about. She was right back then – the night before the battle, which now seemed hundreds of years ago, thousands of lives away.

 “Where is he?” her voice was hard and strong, her eyes – those piercing blue eyes – focused on him.

 “I ordered him to be locked up down in the kennels.”

 “Good” Sansa swallowed, ready to walk away from him. Something made him want to reach out, grab her hand and pull her close, but suddenly she was turning herself, closing the distance between them in three quick steps. She wrapped her hands tightly around him and buried her face in his neck, paying no mind to the thick layer of dirt and blood covering his whole body. Jon instinctively returned the embrace pulling her even closer.

 “You're alive” she whispered the obviousness into his jerkin, nuzzling against his collarbone, her warm breath giving him sudden and unexpected gooseflesh. Raw emotion in her voice was utterly heart-breaking and Jon started to gently caress her auburn hair.

 “The Stark banner hanging again on the walls of Winterfell. It’s a… It’s a good thing to be alive right now” he pulled slightly away and forced a smile, the words leaving bitterness in his mouth.  The words he believed she wanted to hear.

 Sansa frowned at him, pain contorting her face. “Don’t lie to me, Jon” she pleaded. “We both know it’s not true.”

 He knew the image she had before her eyes – a boy of auburn, curly hair, big eyes closed. Pale, thin skin marked blood red by Ramsay Bolton’s deadly arrows. Jon dropped his gaze.

 “Aye. It’s not true”.

 Sansa stepped back, suddenly defensive.

 “If there is something you want to say to me, Jon, please say it now.”

 He felt his cheeks turning red with unexpected and unwanted anger.

 “I only wish _you_ would’ve said something to me. Back when it mattered.” He did not wait for her response, but walked away, his heart getting heavier and heavier with each step he took.

  The room he used to call his own greeted him with nothing but cold emptiness. All the furniture, the bed, the table, the big chair he used to occupy during particularly lonely evenings were gone. It was literally empty, with the small exception of dust and spider webs covering the floor and window sills. Why it was made so Jon did not know, but it didn’t matter anyway. He decided to occupy a chamber nearby the ones he decided to have prepared for Sansa– those which had belonged to Catelyn and Eddard Stark a long time ago. His old room was situated in an entirely different part of the Keep and despite all their quarrels he felt a desperate need to be close to Sansa, to be able to protect her. Being near was the only imaginable option for him. He already regretted walking away from her in the courtyard. If he could, he’d sleep in the same room as her, on a rug under her bed even, just so he could watch over her, making sure that no harm befell her.

 Jon left his old chambers feeling empty himself. Him and Sansa reached their purpose. A bitter victory, but still. And yet now there was even more to be done, more battles to be fought. He knew that without her he wouldn’t make it. Sansa was his priority now – the only family he had left, the very reason to live. He didn’t want to dwell on it but he couldn’t help himself – the fact that she withheld from him as crucial information as the entire Vale’s army coming to their aid made his heart pound with anger. But in the same time, he was way too exhausted to let that anger burn. He needed strength for the new day to come and as he laid down on the furs of his new bed, ready for sleep to take him, the last thought to cross his mind was how soft her long, red hair felt against the rugged skin of his hands.

 

 “Eaten by his own hounds” Davos stood in front of him with a grim expression on his grey face, hands clasped behind his back.

 Yesterday they took back Winterfell. They still haven’t burned all the bodies of the fallen – the number of them was great, the work itself hard and the men left weary from the fight.

 “Seems only fair to me” said Tormund, swallowing a big gulp of ale. He was sitting next to Jon in front of a huge fireplace that Jon’s new chamber provided. “It were up to me, I’d cut his fucking prick off first, though.” Jon ignored his remark and looked at Davos. “You’d do it another way?”

 “Doesn’t matter what I’d do” sighed the Onion Knight. “It’s done and the way of it was just. That’s not my point.”

 “What is it then?” Jon could feel his irritation growing. The only thing he’d do differently was inflicting much, much more pain on Ramsay Bolton before the end, but it wasn’t his decision after all.

 “Making it public, for everyone to see. Not killing him in the shadows with no one to witness” said Davos.

 Jon’s voice was calm when he answered, but a storm was rising in him all the same. “It was Sansa’s decision how she handled Ramsay and I believe it to be the right one” he stood up abruptly and made his way across the room, trying to contain himself. “I know the purpose and meaning of public executions, believe me, Davos, I’ve carried some out myself.” Ghosts of Alliser Thorne, Olly and the rest of his killers and brothers surfaced in his mind only to quickly fade away again. “Ramsay did not deserve one. He deserved to die the way she’d chosen – in darkness and without a single soul to witness but her, stripped of any significance he might have thought he had.”

 Davos must have heard the steel in Jon’s voice for he bowed his head gently. “As you say. I did not mean to speak against Lady Sansa – I only wished to point out that making this execution public would be beneficial for your men and folk of Winterfell in general.

 “What’s beneficial for my men and folk of Winterfell is the fact alone that this scum has been erased from the face of the earth” Jon muttered as he began to slowly rub his temples. His head was aching.

 Tormund smirked with content. “Aye. Said enough!” He stood up and pulled a third chair to the fireplace. “Come, Ser Onion Knight. Drink with us.”

 Davos did not resist and soon they were sitting together, gazing into the flickering flames and drinking their ale in silence, all three too tired to search for topics of conversation, even though they might have found plenty, enough to last the whole night. There was no uneasiness in this silence however – the sole presence of each other gave them a sense of comfort and comradery – thinking of those who’d fallen, thanking for those who’d survived.

 A firm knock on the door woke them from their thoughts and when Jon granted entrance, Petyr Baelish entered the room, smug look on his face, black cloak wrapped on his narrow shoulders, and a golden mockingbird pin on his chest.

 “Lord Snow” he bowed slightly. Jon twitched hearing this mocking name of old. He stood up from his chair, putting away his cup. “Lord Baelish.”

 Littlefinger smirked, his eyes cold. “To my great disappointment we did not have a chance to talk yesterday, with all the messiness of a battle aftermath going on” Baelish’s voice reeked of false anguish.

 “No, we did not.”

 Littlefinger glanced at him for a brief moment, narrowing his eyes and Jon noticed a derisive smirk cross the man’s face. He clenched his fists. 

 “I barely had an opportunity to thank you for your aid” Jon said, composing himself. “Please know what a welcome guest you are here.”

 ‘You are all kindness and hospitality” Littlefinger was eyeing Jon with condescension. “Just as your _beautiful sister_.” The way his voice changed when he mentioned Sansa made Jon’s blood boil and a sudden dread took hold of him.

 “I hope you find your rooms comfortable enough” he said slowly, trying not to grind his teeth. “The castle is not in its best shape, it’ll take some time to restore it.”

 “I’m a simple man, of simple, _basic_ _needs_. I’ll manage.” Again, the way Baelish lingered over the word ‘needs’ made Jon clench his jaw before he could even stop himself and he barely resisted the urge to punch Baelish straight in the face. Littlefinger grinned at him and as if for the first time took notice of Davos’ and Tormund’s quiet presence.

 “But I’m afraid I’m interrupting an intimate meeting of three good companions!” he exclaimed. “I beg your forgiveness, my lords. I hope to see you all very soon!”

 He left without a further word and Jon could actually feel his knuckles turning white from all the clenching. Baelish tried hard to appear cordial, but failed completely in the attempts of hiding his true feelings – the disdain he had towards Ned Stark’s bastard was clear as day. He was smart and cunning, but for some reason that did not help him cover the obvious animosity he felt towards Jon.

 Tormund got up from his chair and stared at him with misbelief, a smirk hanging on his lips. “Am I going deaf or did this prick just call me a bloody lord?!” he burst out laughing. “If only my ma’ were here to see this, Tormund Giantsbane being called a fucking lord by some sneaky southern pecker!” Davos choked on his ale as he chortled and Jon gave a snort of laughter. “You must intimidate him with this greasy, tangled, big beard of yours”.

 “Maybe” Tormund gave one last growl and then looked at Jon seriously.

 “Snow. I don’t like this prick a bit.”

 “And neither do I” Jon muttered, trying to make out the reasons behind Littlefinger’s visit. Why bother coming and pretend he wanted to talk only to leave quickly under some made-up pretence? He turned to Davos with his question.

 “To take the measure of you, I’d say” Seaworth emptied his cup. “To try and intimidate you. Who can tell? I’ve never met the man before, but if there is one thing that I’ve heard about the infamous Lord Baelish, it’s that he’s a sly beast. A snake. Not to be trusted, but that, I believe, you’ve figured out yourself.”

 

* * *

 

  The stone walls echoed her every step as she walked up the steep stairs with nothing but a torch shedding light on her path. It was cold and dark in the crypts as always, but it didn’t matter. Nothing has, accept the cold in her own heart. She just couldn’t stay there any longer, where the dead rested and did not rest at the same time. How was she to make peace with what'd happened?

 Yes, Ramsay was dead. _Dead, dead, dead._ It filled her with satisfaction beyond measure, with unbelievable relief. But Rickon was dead too, and nothing could change that. And Ramsay’s words rang in her head with a menacing timbre.

_I am a part of you now._

_I am a part of you._

No, no, no, she would not have it, she would not believe it. His words will disappear. His words will disappear.

  _Your words will disappear._

 But the memory of Rickon would not. The memory of him, of Robb. Of mother and father. She would carry them and cherish them, and she’d bury anything that would cast any kind of shadow on them in her mind or her heart.

 She thought she knew lost well enough. She thought she prepared herself for Rickon’s inevitable death. And yet she was weeping all the same.

 She hardly knew the boy whose body they brought after the battle. So grown, so much bigger than she remembered him. A little sweet bundle of love with laughter in his eyes.

 A new wave of weeping took her and forced to bend down, as she clutched her stomach tightly with uncontrollable sobs escaping her. She leaned against the cold wall, trying to compose herself. Breathe in, breath out. In and out, in and out.

 Sansa did not remember the last time she cried like that. She mastered the art of always being collected and indifferent, of pushing her emotions deep inside her, so no one could see them. She couldn’t even open herself to Jon, not entirely. She wanted to weep for Rickon with him – she wanted to join his grief with her own, yet she was unable to do so. She felt an invisible wall rising between them – a wall that she gave the foundation for. He was angry with her, she knew, and for a good reason. And maybe he thought she didn’t care for Rickon at all, that their little brother meant nothing to her. Maybe he thought that his death hasn’t affect her whatsoever. Maybe he took her for a heartless, cunning monster now. The idea made her stomach turn and a powerful pang of pain clutched her already aching heart.

 Suddenly she felt undescribed longing after her father, after his strong embrace that always made her feel so small, and, oh, so very safe. _Father… Dad… Daddy! Where are you? Father!_ She felt a cold shiver go down her spine at the memory of his death, of her hopelessness, of the stinking King’s Landing and the crowd of enemies surrounding her. It seemed like hundreds, thousands years ago. She bit her lip, relieving the guilt that had been following her since. How badly had she failed him. How badly had she failed Rickon too.

When she calmed down enough to put on her regular, unreadable mask, she finally left the staircase of the crypts and emerged into the light of the morning. Snowflakes were swirling in the cold air, gently setting on her face and melting slowly as they met the warmth of her skin.

 As she trod through the courtyard she noticed Jon’s dark silhouette on the battlements above the South Gate. She wanted to call out to him, yearning for him whole-heartedly, still she felt lost and unsure. Why would he ever forgive her? Why would he try to? She couldn’t forgive herself for keeping so much from him. 

  _What should I do now?_

_Rickon is gone, and so is Robb, and father, and mother. But you are alive and Jon is alive too._

 There was only one thing for her to do, she realised as she made her way towards the walls, with an apology forming in her heart.


	2. The Princess and the King

 He watched Lady Melisandre’s silhouette slowly decrease amidst the vastness of snowy landscape, when Sansa joined him on the battlements. He approached her calmly then, made a remark about her parent’s chamber being prepared for her. He did not want to fight, and as it turned out, there was no need for it - she was so good, so loving, as she talked to him.

  _I’m not a Stark_ , he said, when she argued that it was him who should take the lord’s chamber.  

  _You’re to me_ , she answered. He knew she meant these words and it made his bastard heart beat ten times faster.

 Her short, heartfelt apology melted the last bits of his exasperation. He didn’t expect it from her, really, he feared that his bitterness would infuriate her to the point where reconciliation was nearly impossible to achieve. But here she was - exposing herself to him more than ever before – filled with remorse and seeking forgiveness. The quaver of her voice pulled invisible strings in his heart.

_We have to trust each other. We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves. We have so many enemies now._

 Her skin was soft, so soft, when he pressed his lips to her forehead. She smelled of snow and juniper. And now he did not want to pull away, he wanted to stay close, to kiss her forehead, her temples, her cheeks, again and again. She aroused tenderness in him he did not know he possessed. But finally he did pull back and looked at her, _really_ looked at her. So alike her lady mother, yet so entirely different. Very beautiful, yes, his fair lady. Well, not his exactly. Her brow furrowed, eyes locked on him. She seemed so vulnerable and fragile at the moment it made his heart ache. She had snowflakes in her hair and as Jon lowered his gaze and glanced down at her lips, something stirred inside him in a way that was not brotherly at all.

 That took him aback - _again_ , for it had happened before. Jon tried to shove the thought aside, but he could not. _What if she sees?_  He drew his hand back and with one last glance turned away.

 But she did not let him go, not just yet.

  _A raven came from the Citadel. A white raven. Winter is here._

 Winter is here. The words filled him with joy, real joy. He smiled widely, feeling like a young boy, as he looked up at the overcast sky, letting the thick, white snow fall on to his face. Laughter filled his heart. Then he looked at her again, so good and so close, the very person that made home feel like home.

 “Well, father always promised, didn't he?"

 

* * *

 

 

 From all the places in Winterfell, Godswood was the one completely unchanged - just as she remembered it from before she left for King’s Landing, only now covered in a thick layer of snow. She almost expected to see her father sitting there, under the Heart Tree, as was his custom. He would appear any moment now, wouldn’t he?

 If only it was untainted by the trauma that followed her now – if only it wasn’t the place where she had been married off to Ramsay Bolton, before gods and men. But the entire castle was tainted now for her and she knew it would take a long time to suppress everything that haunted her and make the place new in her eyes – new and old at the same time, as it was still her family home and it would always be – she would not let the Boltons, a house that was gone now and hopefully soon to be forgotten, corrupt Winterfell for good.

 How foolish she was in the past, how little did she care for this place – longing after the south, and the knights in their shining armours, and a glorious court taken straight from a song.

 She wished Jon was here with her now, so she would not feel so alone. She did not pray anymore, but with him she might try again. Maybe it would be different, maybe it would mean something. She could thank the gods for him.

 They would sit here together and draw comfort from each other’s presence. Maybe he would kiss her forehead again, as he did before. He was so sweet and gentle with her, she still needed to get used to it – to his small gestures of kindness and affection that stirred something unspeakable in her. Oh, and how needlessly was she worrying about him not forgiving her – how easily did his forgiveness come after her apology, clumsy and incoherent as it was.

 A sound of footsteps on the snow had her raise her head in hopes to see Jon – but it was Baelish creeping towards her, his eyes dark and narrowed.

 

  _It’s a pretty picture_ , she said when he revealed his heart's true desires to her. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she laid her hand against him to stop it.

  _Never again, Baelish. Never again._

 How could he be so foolish? Blind, even? The thought alone of his lips touching hers made her stomach turn. Did he really not see how badly she loathed him, hated him really? She began to move towards the courtyard, leaving him behind, but he would not let her go yet.

  _You, my love, are the future of House Stark._

There he was, making her sick again. _I’m not your love_ , she thought. Words were still coming out from his foul mouth, ringing in her head. Doing what he could to turn her against Jon, the last person she had in this world. Wretched fool.

 Did he really think this was what she wanted? Power? To be by his side as he sat on the Iron Throne, in the most vile, stinking city in the world? _I’m not you, Baelish, how can you forget that?_

She left him there finally, gracing his tirade not even with a smallest response. What he said made her think however, although perhaps not in the way he hoped for. When she wrote him to send the Vale’s army to their aid, one of the many things she was dreading was what Littlefinger would do to Jon. He perceived him as a threat – now that she was no longer alone in the world, she didn’t need Baelish and his “protection”. Jon stood there, between her and Littlefinger like a big wolf, guarding her.

 A wolf that Petyr would do anything to destroy.

* * *

 

  It was snowing all day, but when the evening came, the heavy clouds passed and the sky was once again clear above his head, glimmering with stars. Jon left the courtyard, where he was overlooking the restoration of the East Gate, but didn’t head to the Great Hall straight away. He quickly made his way to the Keep instead, the cloak Sansa made for him sweeping behind him.

 He wavered before knocking on her door. Every action he took this day, his every move since their encounter on the battlements was laced with his hopeless attempts to shove aside the feelings haunting him, with stern refusal to acknowledge or name those feelings. They were disrupting, dire, incomprehensible. But he knew they would have an impact on him only if he’d let them. And he had no intention to do so. She was his sister and he loved her, that was all. He wanted her to be safe, to be happy. He’d do anything to protect her. Nothing else mattered, he wouldn’t allow it.

 He knocked and she responded automatically with a nervous „Who’s there?”

 It was so obvious from her voice that she was alarmed it took him aback. She was back in their home, with him, Ramsay Bolton gone, and yet she was afraid, never putting her guard down.

 “It’s just me” he answered softly and allowed himself in. Sansa was sitting at the edge of her bed, hands on her lap, fingers laced together tightly. It looked as if she was praying. She wore the gown she had made herself, the blue one with wolf embroidery on the chest. She let her hair fall loose in red shiny waves and he couldn’t help but notice how they were set aflame by the warm light emanating from the fireplace and all the candles lit around the room.

 “I’ve come to take you… I mean _escort_ you to the feast. If you’d like to. I thought you would.” He smiled awkwardly at her, feeling like an utter idiot. He was never the one for courtesy, he only wanted to please her.

 Sansa’s face brightened as she smiled back. “Thank you Jon, that’s very thoughtful of you.” He realised that she didn’t want to go to the Great Hall by herself. Perhaps she was expecting this of him. _Thank the gods I thought of it._

 He reached for her fur cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, as she brushed her hair aside. She fastened the cloak’s buckle and gazed at him for a moment.

 “You look just like father” she declared and rearranged his chest-strapping.

 He smiled knowingly. “And you look just like your lady mother.” He thought a comment of the kind would please her, but Sansa just sighed and muttered: “Yes, I know. Shall we go?”

 “My lady” Jon extended his arm to her and she took it gracefully, giving him even a little curtesy.

 

 The Great Hall was filled with people – northmen, knights of the Vale, the free folk. Jon and Sansa sat down together at the High Table, taking the seats of lord and lady of Winterfell. It was strange enough to sit at the seat that was never supposed to be his – having Sansa by his side only made it even more surreal.

 Commotion in the hall was overwhelming – everyone had something to say on the matter of North’s future, on the wars to come, but for a moment Jon found himself unable to listen. His mind took him elsewhere – to father, lord Eddard Stark and Warden of the North, and to Robb, his heir. _It should be him sitting here, not me_. Why have the gods willed it so? Why was he alive while Robb was gone? Robb – the King, him – the motherless bastard?

  _Is my mother alive? Does she know about me? Where I am? Where I'm going? Does she care?_

_The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother._

But there was no next time, no future for Eddard Stark. And with him, all the reminiscence of the woman Jon yearned for since he was a little boy was gone. He would never know.

 Finally he came back to reality. To Lord Royce speaking against the free folk, to Lord Cerwyn obliviously proposing to wait out the coming storm.

 And to Lyanna Mormont and her speech, speech that changed everything.

 

 

_The King in the North!_

This was madness, he thought. He must have been dreaming. Was he? It was all too surreal to comprehend. His head was spinning as he raised himself from his chair, too moved to speak. They were all on their feet – their swords raised high, their tongues all ferociously chanting the same words. Their voices joined together in an astonishing choir. The entire hall abuzz. Jon’s heart was pounding, filled with excitement and gratitude and guilt. He looked at Sansa. She was smiling at him gently, but he was all too confused to read anything from this smile of hers, completely dumbfounded, the voices turning into complete buzz in his ears. He turned to them once again – those good men, his men, who just proclaimed him their king .

  _This is not right,_ he thought. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa was Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter. Sansa was the one who urged him to take back Winterfell. Sansa was the one, who saved all their lives. He would not take this from her. Through all the increbility, and euphoria and his own misbelief he realised what he had to do. He extended his hand to Sansa, prepared to proclaim _her_ a queen, the true queen, but then she stopped him. Realisation of what he wanted to do crossed her face and all she did was slightly shake her head. He opened his mouth in a silent protest, but then she shook it again.

  _She doesn’t want to be queen._

But it still didn’t make it right. He extended his hand once more, urging her with his eyes to take it, and when she finally did, a plea in her eyes, he pulled her up to stand by his side.

 “My lords!” he called, trying to outshoot them. “My lords! Nothing of what I might have done would come to be, if it weren’t for your lady! I’m humbled by your words, but there would be no victory if it wasn’t for her!” Men raised their voices in agreement. He reached for Longclaw in its sheath, ready to shout out the words. But Sansa was faster.

 “Thank you, my King!” she exclaimed and laid a hand on his chest. “And thank all of you, for your service to our house!”

 A thunderous cry raised from their throats, Sansa’s name on their lips, and filled the walls of Winterfell with its fury.

 

 She was named the Princess, the Lady of Winterfell, his heir and regent. They would call her the Red Wolf and the Winter Rose as toasts were being risen one after another. She would not consent to anything more. She professed her full support of his kingship and promised to be at his side always. But she would not be made a queen.

 The atmosphere in the Great Hall changed entirely. Suddenly people were joyful, nearly elated, and to everybody’s delight the food was served, humble as it was, but more than enough for those who were present. Ale and wine were pouring and men were laughing, some even began to sing, paying no mind to the lack of instruments or minstrels.

 Sansa was holding his hand, squeezing it tightly, speechless, a shy smile hanging on her lips. He still could not believe what just happened. They were sitting like this, holding on to each other, the only people not eating. He wanted to talk to her badly, but there was no occasion to do so. People were walking up to their table, reassuring him of their allegiance and congratulating, more or less jovially. They addressed both of them as _Your Grace_ and Jon wasn’t entirely sure if he wasn’t actually dreaming.

 Guilt was flooding him though, as he accepted his lords’ assurances, Sansa’s presence burning at his side.

 Then Tormund walked up, dragging his chair with him and took the place next to Sansa without any scruples. He took her goblet and gulped down its contents. “My congratulations, har!” he burped loudly and smirked. Sansa held back a laugh.

 “I do bloody hope, however, that Your Mighty Royal Highness does not expect me or the rest of free folk to kneel and swear _our_ allegiance” Tormund eyed Jon suspiciously. He laughed in response. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

 “Good”, Giantsbane grinned and winked at Sansa, to her great amusement. “Then I’ll confess, I’m a bit disappointed that nobody proclaimed _me_ a king, for I saved your ass on the battlefield more than once and singers are already writing songs about my great exploits. Being named a queen would do as well.”

 “Queen Tormund Giantsbane, first of her name?” Jon chortled. “I suppose it does have a ring to it.” Before his friend had a time to answer, Sansa spoke with sudden concern in her voice.

 “Littlefinger in not here. He was sitting down there by the wall just a few seconds ago, but now he’s gone.”

 Jon felt a sting of jealousy, which annoyed him greatly.

 “Why do you care?” he muttered. She shot him a glance, but had no time to answer, as Tormund leaned forward smiling mischievously. “Maybe he went to his chamber to trim those thin whiskers of his, or this pointy funny thing he probably calls a beard. By the looks of it I’d say he spends a lot of time on it.” To Giantsbane satisfaction Sansa giggled at his remark, apparently eager to amuse herself on Baelish’s expense. Encouraged, Tormund took it upon himself to entertain the new princess with stories of his great exploits and Jon observed with content, how much she’s warmed up to the wilding. He watched her as she ate and laughed, listening to Tormund’s blathering. She was lovely, he thought, her cheeks light pink, eyes bright and shining, and her lips… Her lips enticing and reddened by wine. He wondered what would they taste like.

 He realised what he was thinking of and quickly turned his gaze away from Sansa and Tormund, furious with himself.  He’d flog himself right now, if it was possible and he was alone. But he was _not_ alone, he was a bloody king now and the hall was full of men. Jon began to devour the food from his plate, stuffing himself with meat and bread, chastising himself in his head.

  _What the fuck is wrong with you, idiot? She’s your damn sister._

_Half-sister._

 Sickened by himself, he reached for his goblet and drained it hastily.

 But then he realised than Sansa suddenly stopped laughing and he followed her gaze to see that Littlefinger has re-entered the hall. He approached their table and took a deep bow. “Your Grace. My Princess” he addressed them both, a sly smile on his lips, his eyes locked on Sansa. “I allowed myself to abandon our little gathering for a moment, it seemed only right to bring the gifts I have for our Winter Rose right away!”

 Sansa’s body stiffened next to him, but she remained collected and courteous. “Lord Baelish, the aid you and the other lords of the Vale offered us in the hour of most grievous need was more than enough, no gifts are necessary, I assure you.”

 Baelish was smiling at her lustfully. “My lady, you are too kind, as always, but the gifts are already here in Winterfell and there’s no other person I’d want to bestow them upon.” He looked as if he were about to lick his lips and Jon barely resisted the impulse to knock the last breath out of him. Littlefinger clapped his hands and two servants entered the hall bearing a big, wooden chest, embellished with golden ornaments.

 “It’s rather a humble gift for a princess, but I hope you’ll find it to your liking.” He opened the chest and draw out a cloth of shiny fabric, richly embellished. “Dresses made of lyseni silk, princess Sansa. I believe they’ll be most pleasurable to wear – there is no other fabric in the world as soft or delicate as this – highly befitting a woman of your extraordinary beauty. Do not worry about resizing – my seamstresses are well acquainted with your measurements…”

 Jon stirred in his seat, enraged by Littlefinger’s audacity and apparently he was not the only one. A low murmur of discontent went through the Hall, but Baelish paid no mind to it. Jon laid his hand on Sansa’s smaller one.

 She remained composed however and thanked the man gracefully. She ordered the servants to deliver the silks to her chambers. Littlefinger shot one last long look at her and took his place at the table. 

 The Great Hall, which fell silent to witness the exchange between lord Baelish and Sansa returned to its previous hubbub, but Jon was entirely unsettled. He suspected certain things from the start, but this move by Baelish was a clear message, that he would have to be an idiot not to understand. A message to him and every person present, that Littlefinger would from now on strive to win a prize much more valuable than anything else they could ever offer him.

And that being Sansa herself.


	3. By the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you SO MUCH for all your lovely comments, it truly makes this fanfic 10 times more fun to write when I know that you're enjoying it! Every new comment makes me beyond happy! :)  
> This chapter is a bit shorter and mostly build around a conversation, also only Jon's POV, but I hope you'll like it!

 The Great Hall was still alive with laughter, songs, and cheer. He must have been the only one not enjoying himself at the moment. Although it would seem that him, of all people, would have the most reason to be joyful, being just proclaimed a king didn't occupy his mind as much as it probably should have.

 Jon found himself breathing heavily, clutching his goblet with iron strength. His mind was racing. The idea of being separated from Sansa by anything else than death has never crossed his mind before. The effect it had on him was overwhelming and for a moment he felt like a little boy, desperate not to be left alone in this world.

 He grasped Sansa’s shoulder and as she turned to him surprised, he looked into her eyes searching for something, unable to communicate the things he had to say. Holding her, feeling her warmth under his skin was reassuring – as long as he would hold her, no one could take her.   

 But a moment passed and he withdrew his hand, for she began to look concerned, and he felt his fear turn into rage, the prospect of losing her to this scumbag making his blood boil. He spend the rest of the feast restless – watching her like a hawk, at the same time never ceasing to notice any little movement by Littlefinger. Baelish wanted to make her his. Marry her perhaps, take her back to the Vale with him. She couldn’t leave, she couldn’t. Everything he’s done since she’d found him, he’s done for her. Every little thing. If it weren’t for her, he’d be long gone, somewhere in the South, without a point, without a reason to live. It wasn’t the Red Woman who brought him back to life, it was her, only her. After a moment Jon realised he was trembling.

 When the feast was finally over and a council meeting was agreed upon first in the morning, he insisted on escorting her to her chambers. How could he ever leave her to be alone now, with Baelish creeping around the castle?

 Sansa took his arm and leaned on to him as they walked, with Ghost pacing behind. The King and the Princess. The faintest of smiles appeared on his face at the thought of it, at how unbelievable it seemed, while in the same time he felt flushed with guilt. Events of the evening, all the excitement and fervour, took their toll on him and weariness fell on his arms and into his heart.

 He didn’t need to ask her if he could come in when they arrived at her door, neither did she propose it herself – she simply pulled him with her inside, as if it were obvious that he’d stay. There she took off her cloak and poured some wine into two goblets, one of which she handed to him. Jon accepted it gladly.

 They drank in silence, both still too confused to know what to say to each other. Sansa wiped drops of wine from her lips with the tips of her fingers and something stirred inside of him at the sight of it.

 “The King in the North” she whispered, turning her gaze away from him.

 “Aye” Jon muttered dumbly. “That I am now.”

 He did not let her answer. “I wanted you to be the Queen. It doesn’t feel right, it isn’t right. Why did you stop me?”

 She looked at him again, a shade of smile on her lips. “I don’t want to be queen. It’s a dream that belongs to the past, to the summer, to a different person” she dropped her gaze with a quiet sigh. “I only wanted our home and our brother back. And now I… I long for peace, but I know there’s only war ahead of us. I’m not a leader. You are, Jon, you’re what we need right now.”

 He couldn’t help but snort. “Aye, I’m a leader. As a leader I was murdered by men who swore to obey me. As a leader I failed to secure northern houses for our cause. As a leader I butchered my own battle plan, fell into Ramsay’s trap and nearly cost us everything.”

 She gave him a look that was filled with both disappointment and defeat and made him regret his words at once. Words of bitterness and self-pity, that she did not deserve to hear from him.

 “I’m sorry, Sansa. You must understand, I didn’t mean… I swear I’ll fight for our home. And our family, and the North. I will do whatever’s best for our people. I’m honoured and humbled by what happened tonight – it’s just I can’t shake off the feeling that I’ve wronged you. You’re Eddard Stark’s trueborn daughter.”

 She was the one snorting now, although in a more lady-like manner.

 “Yes, I am his trueborn daughter. And what did it mean for me before?” She emptied her cup quickly and poured herself another. “Being pulled from one hands to another, from the Lannisters to Tyrells, then to Lannisters again. From Baelish and lady Arryn to the Boltons. Everyone desiring my claim, everyone wanting to make the best deal out of holding me.”

 Her blue eyes were piercing right through him. “Jon, I’m _glad_ you’re the King. I’m happy to be on the sideways for a moment, if it gives me a chance to breathe. I will help you however I can. I will help you rule if need be, for there are aspects of this game you’re not acquainted with. Aspects that I know, since I’ve learned them the hard way. Yes, you’re not father’s trueborn son and… And what happened today was unprecedented, shocking even. Never before was a bastard-born named a king… And I don’t know why, but it makes me hopeful. Like something is changing. Like the world is changing.” She gave him the faintest smile and he just had to smile back.

 “You’ll forgive me then?”

 She laughed. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jon.”

 Sansa poured him some more wine. “You know, I don’t remember ever drinking this much” she sighed as she pointed towards the flagon. He did not answer, only took her hand and led her to the fire place where they both sat down gazing at each other.

 “Jon,” she said softly, her eyes weary. He was not the only tired one. “Are you scared?”

 “I don’t know yet.” he muttered. “I probably should.” She said nothing, scrutinizing his face.

 “I only know I don’t want to fail anyone.” He took a deep breath. “Especially you. How much more difficult will it be to protect you now?”

 Her chin trembled and for a moment he thought she would start crying. But she composed herself, took a deep breath and walked over to him. To his bewilderment she kneeled beside him and tenderly kissed his knuckle. “You’re so good to me” she muttered, her voice shaking. “Nobody’s been this good to me since... Since the day Joffrey took father’s head on the steps of the Great Sept of Baleor” Sansa swallowed hard. “I was hurting so much and for such a long time, and my heart was bleeding, Jon, truly.” She rested her forehead against the back of his hand and whispered softly – “And then I found you. I don’t know what would I do without you now.”

 He felt his own heart jump into his throat. Every moment when she allowed herself to be vulnerable, when she showed him the gentleness hidden behind the steel that her skin has become was a true wonder, something he treasured.

_You deserve to be loved, Sansa._

 Too moved to speak, he leaned down and laid a kiss on her head, cupping it with his hand. He wanted badly to answer her, to express all the feelings that were a storm in his heart, but he found himself still unable to speak, so he prayed that his hands caressing her, and his lips brushing against her head were enough a message for her to understand how he felt.  

 She was crying quietly now, why - he did not know. Maybe for Rickon, for their family, for all the pain that had been inflicted on her. He pulled her up to him and hold her close, stroking her long, soft hair until she was calm again. But even then they didn’t let go of each other, both drawing comfort from the closeness and warmth of one another. Jon could sit like this with her curled on his lap all night, but there were some things he just had to discuss.

 “I want to talk to you about one thing…” he muttered  against her hair after a long moment of silence. Sansa slowly pulled back and stood up to his great disappointment. “About Baelish” she stated, wiping her cry-swollen face.

 “Aye, about him" Jon hesitated, unable to continue. "He… He wants you. It’s clear as day.”

 Sansa gave him a pitiful look. “Yes. He’s wanted me for a long time now.”

 Jon stood up abruptly, feeling his exasperation rise. “And you speak of it so calmly? I’ve seen the way he looks at you, as if you were his prey, as if…” he fell silent for a moment. “He’s a lustful man, Sansa. There is actual hunger in his eyes when he watches you.”

 She seemed weary and unwilling to speak, as if she were talking with a naive child.  “You see, Jon, Littlefinger has ever loved only one woman - my mother. But he could never have her. And I… I remind him of her…” She paused and blushed, as if she were ashamed of her resemblance to lady Stark. This revelation took him aback for a moment and it must have shown on his face, for Sansa immediately continued, rushing to lull him in his disturbance. “It’s all twisted, yes, he sees Catelyn Tully in me. But I’ve been aware of his desires long before you, Jon.”

 As if her being aware changed anything. _He lusts after her because she looks like Lady Stark, because she’s her daughter._ He felt sick.

 “I don’t want him anywhere near you” he said, enraged. Sansa gave him a playful smile.

 “Then where were you today, when he came to see me in the godswood?” she asked teasingly, perhaps wanting to release the tension, but it seemed she regretted her words as soon as she spoke them.

 Jon clenched his fists, scrutinizing her face. “Were you going to tell me about that?” he asked quietly after a moment.

 “Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” she retorted angrily.

  _Not this again, not another fight_. Her expression softened immediately.

 “Of course I was going to tell you, Jon. Please don’t be mad.”

 “I’m not mad” he seethed. “Not at you anyway.” Jon could tell that she didn’t believe him.

 “What did he want? Tell me all of it.”

 Sansa saw his distress and so she grabbed his hand for reassurance. “He told me about a little picture in his head… Of him on the Iron Throne and-”

 She wavered, still unsettled by his anger. “And me by his side.” Jon opened his mouth ready to rant, but she shushed him immediately. “Save your anger for later, Jon, for he even tried to kiss me, and that’s still not all of it.” He felt his heart pound with rage and Sansa’s grip was the only thing keeping him in place. “He did what?!”

 She rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t the first time, truly Jon, calm down.”

 “Has he ever forced himself on you?!” her attempts to hush him infuriated him even more.

 “Never further than a kiss” she snarled. Jon was seething. “If he ever tries anything I will kill him, I swear.” She gave him a look that was a mix of mirth and something resembling gratitude. “Well, then I probably shouldn’t tell you that he also tried to pit me against you, or you will be at his door in a heartbeat.”

 The way she made light of the matter made him even wearier, so he just stared at her blankly, completely out of words, as he often was when talking to her. How must she pitied him then, in his fruitless anger. Sansa took his face in her hands and laid a soft kiss on his cheek, setting his skin on fire, despite his best efforts to avoid the sensation. “Truly, Jon, don’t worry about Littlefinger. You’re the king now, and I’m Lady of Winterfell, remember? He’s a dangerous man, but I’m not afraid of him. And he’s made the mistake of revealing his desires to me.”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Aye, he is a dangerous man. And powerful, too. It seems to me he won’t stop before he gets what he wants. Sansa, I will not lose you to him. Something has to be done.”

 She gazed at him for a moment, weighting her words before she spoke them. “Yes, something has to be done, but with great caution and forethought. We need him now, Jon, we need the Vale’s army if we are to keep the North. The important thing now is that we can’t let him break us apart. What you said this morning… We do need to trust each other. And I need you to trust me when I tell you that I _can_ handle him.”

 He realised that would be the end of the discussion and deep inside he knew she was right. For the moment he tried to calm the hatred of Baelish raging in his body and focus solely on her. “Just promise me that from now on you will tell me everything, Sansa” he murmured. “Please.”

 “I will” she assured, her eyes locked on his.

 In the silence that befell them then, with the light of the fire flickering on her face, he felt an urge to pull her closer and kiss her, as she deserved to be kissed. Not by Joffrey, Ramsay, or Baelish-sort of men, but someone worthy of her, someone who’d be good for her. His whole body ached for her and he just couldn’t help himself any longer, so he gave in to desire of touching her smooth skin – he slowly traced the lines of her cheek-bone with his thumb as she watched him in bewilderment, quiet and still.

  _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa._

The question mark that appeared in her eyes suddenly made him realise that he must have muttered her name aloud.

_Aloud._

 She opened her mouth to speak, but he pulled away, terrified by his lack of restraint, and with a quick “goodnight” he left her chambers, shame burning his cheeks like fire.


	4. Sleepless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, I just wanted to thank you once more for your lovely comments and support! you're all amazing!  
> here comes another, this time only Sansa's POV, enjoy!

 The wind was howling outside and the moon was shining right through the windows, filling her bedroom with pale, blue light. She shuddered under the furs covering her, even though hers was the warmest bedroom in the whole castle. Jon was decided to give the lords chambers to her and any argument she tried to pick up turned out to be fruitless, since he was not to be swayed. It was sweet of him, truly, but then again, Jon was nothing but sweet and gentle with her ever since they’ve reunited.

 Winterfell was now asleep and being awake this late at night made her feel  like the only person alive in the world.

 Yet another sleepless night. Sansa pulled the covers tighter around her body and closed her eyes, willing the sleep to take her. It was no use. It would come eventually, sometime before dawn, leaving her with only few moments of insufficient snooze, before her day began, filled with tasks she had to attend to.

 She realised she was tracing her left cheek again, the very spot that Jon graced with his touch a few nights ago. She shuddered once more at the memory of it. It was such an intense, intimate moment between them that she barely believed it actually happened. Had he not left immediately after, she might have not paid as much attention to it as she did – but he practically _run away_   then, startled by his own boldness, leaving her in no doubt that it meant something to him as well.

 It was Jon who kept her awake at night, not her fears, nightmares or ghosts of the past. Him. There was so much to do for the Lady of Winterfell and the King’s hand, that while the sun was shining above her head, she had no time to really think about what was happening between them, occupied by her countless duties. But as the night came, her mind went wild, analysing everything that has happened during the day. Amidst all their tasks she would only catch him sometimes glancing at her, she’d see his expression change at the sight of her, the very nuances in his behaviour that gave away his unrest. She’d see his animosity towards Littlefinger – when the man was around during a council meeting or a joined meal Jon would not leave her side and he’d watch Baelish with an ominous expression on his already brooding face. She wished it wouldn’t, but it made her heart flutter. She chastised herself for that, for her weakness and utter stupidity – how could her heart be so weak as to actually _flutter_ after all she’d experienced, after everything she had learned? And more importantly, for a man who was her brother?

  _A half-brother._

She turned in the bed, aggravated by her stupid, _stupid_ thoughts. Still her mind raced straight back to Jon, to his rough, gentle hands. To the deep warmth of his dark eyes. To his lips that…

  _Enough!_   Sansa turned again, now truly infuriated. _What is wrong with you?!_ She was so tired, and angry, and filled with angst – it was becoming harder and harder to deny the predilection she felt for Jon, the uncanny force pulling her to him. _Why does it have to be this way?_ She might have called these dreams stupid, she might have shoved them aside and forsworn them – but somewhere deep inside her they still lingered – forgotten and bleak – sheepish dreams of happiness, of love. And truly, there was no denying it – it was Jon who has awoken them. Sansa buried her face in the pillow, gritting her teeth and forcing herself not to scream out of anger.

  _Stupid, stupid girl._

_With stupid dreams, who never learns._

But Jon made it really hard not to be hopeful. It seemed so unreasonable in the eve of the great war, with the Long Night coming, and their position in the North so fragile still – but he changed everything in her life and gave a new quality to it. She was no longer alone without a place in the world – she was back in Winterfell, yes, but she knew that without him it wouldn’t have mattered. So she did hope that all the pain and sorrow would finally pass, and the wars would pass as well, and if they both’d survived them – it would lead them to something good at the end.

 She wished she had someone to confide in, however. She could hardly tell Jon about what was keeping her awake at night, and there was no one else she could trust. Brienne could make a true confidant perhaps, but she still haven’t returned from the Riverlands and Sansa wasn’t sure if she could open to her sworn knight that much.

 Sound of quiet footsteps behind the door startled her. She sat up immediately, pulling her covers close to her chest. _There’s a guard behind your door_ , she reminded herself. _You’re safe._ Muffled voices reached her ears but she could not distinguish the words. She was not sleeping anyway, so she got up from her bed and pulled a heavy night robe to cover her shoulders, letting her curiosity get the best of her, as she paced through the chamber, the floor cold against her bare feet. No more sound was coming from the corridor, but she quietly opened the door anyway, despite all her fear, anxious to find out who disrupted the peace of her guard. To her great surprise she found Jon instead, standing in front of her chamber, his back turned towards the door, facing the darkness of the corridor.

 “Jon?” she laid her hand on his shoulder and he turned around abruptly, startled by the touch.

 "Sansa!"

 “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?”

 “I couldn’t sleep” he muttered. “I told Meryt I’d take his watch at your door. He seemed rather surprised.” Jon’s voice stiffened as his gaze slipped down her silhouette. Sansa realised that her robe was falling down unlaced, revealing her thin night shift in the front. She looked at him to find that his eyes darkened with an unspeakable sensation. He dropped his gaze, blushing helplessly as she quickly rearranged her robe.

 “I could not sleep either” she said hoarsely. “But why would you guard my door?” she smiled, hoping to ease the tension between them, but the question made him even more embarrassed.

 “When I can’t sleep… Well, I thought it would make me a bit less anxious if I could watch over you.”

 Sansa leaned against the wall and crossed her arms against her chest. “You’re the king. I don’t think it’s what you should be doing at night.” Jon gave her a quizzical look. “I mean… You should be sleeping. You should be sleeping at night.” It was her who was blushing now and she could not bear to look at him.

 “I have trouble sleeping since… Well, since I died” he muttered under his breath. “Especially nights like this, with the wind howling so loudly.”

 Sansa gave a nod, trying to appear understanding, but then again, she had no idea of what he had went through.

 “You should go get some rest” Jon pointed towards the door.

 “No” she shook her head. “Sleep won’t come very soon, especially with you standing behind my door.”

 Jon’s expression clouded at her words. “Why is that?” he asked grimly.

  _He understands nothing_ , she thought.

 ‘How can I sleep, when you’re standing here restless?” she managed to mumble. _I would probably sleep well if you were next to me, close. If you’d wrap your hands around me and truly kept me safe._ She wondered if it would do the same for him as well.

 “Truly, I don’t see any point for both of us to stand here” he stated decisively. “ You’re barefoot, you must be freezing.” She only now realised he was right – her feet were ice cold.

 “Shall we go sit by the fire, then?” she proposed shyly, pointing at her door. “You know those should be your chambers as well as mine.”

“I would not have you sleep in any other room, Sansa, you know that” he smiled at her.

 “Yes, I know, you’re after all stubborn as a mule” she muttered with pretended annoyance.

 “A family trait, I’d say” he smirked, opening the door for her.

  The fire in her bedchamber nearly went out, so he began to tend to it. Sansa watched quietly as he added new logs of wood to feed the flames, rearranging them to let the fire breathe. She observed that while he might have not been the most graceful of men, his body was shapely and muscular. _He’s so strong_ , she thought, though perhaps maintaining a fire wasn’t a task that required great strength. Fighting on the other hand was. She remembered his wild fury when he had been beating Ramsay Bolton into a bloody pulp. He seemed unstoppable then, made of iron, fiery wrath burning in his eyes.

 She brushed the thought aside and sat down in her chair with a needle work, which she pulled from her sewing basket. It was too dark to pursue a craft this meticulous, but she needed something to keep her hands busy. After all, Jon was in her chamber, at night, and she felt nervous. She would not have her hands quaking now.

 “I just remembered” he said suddenly, turning from the fire place to face her. “I wanted to tell you in the morning – a raven came from Greywater this evening. Howland Reed is riding to Winterfell to swear his allegiance.”

 It was good news, and she smiled widely. “I wouldn’t expect any less of him. He was a good friend to father, and a faithful bannerman to Robb. I knew he would respond to the raven we send him. When are we to expect him?”

 “Depends on the weather, I suppose. If it keeps snowing like this it may slow down his entourage” Jon sat down in a chair next to her and glanced at the needle work in her lap.

 “And what is the number of men he brings with him?” she enquired, puncturing the delicate fabric of her stockings. “We’ll have to redistribute men around the castle, if there comes many – Winterfell is already filled with people.”

 “Aye, you’re right. But he rides with no more than a dozen, as I recall from his letter.”

 “We’ll find room for them, then” she smiled, feeling his gaze on her.

 Jon cleared his throat. “Any news from Brienne?” he asked. “She should be back by now.”

 “The snow is slowing her down, I suppose” Sansa found her courage to meet his eyes. “I’m determined not to worry about her… yet. She can take care of herself, she’s strong and wilful. She’ll come back to me.”

 Jon leaned forward in his chair and gave a little nod. “I hope so. She’ll watch over you when I’m not by your side.”

 Sansa allowed herself a little chuckle. “Won’t be very often then.”

 Jon raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I spend thrice more time away from you than I wish!” She smiled again.

 “Well, many things acquire your attention that I’m not really needed for. I can be by your side at every council meeting, but I can hardly ride out with you to fight Bolton marauders. I’m safer here in Winterfell than you’re out in the land anyway” she pointed out knowingly. “Really Jon, you needn’t fret over me so badly – what could possibly happen to me here in any case?”

 She knew what his answer would be before he even spoke the words.

 Baelish became wary around her when Jon was present, but she knew he kept looking for excuses to be alone with her at any other time. When he cornered her once more in the godswood after Jon’s coronation, doing the best that he could to poison her against “the bastard king” and trying to convince her how badly she had been betrayed and wronged, Sansa turned to Jon and asked for Ghost. Jon would probably be more than willing if she proposed to give Littlefinger to the direwolf’s use, but the only thing she wanted was Ghost’s company when she frequented the godswood. Whenever Baelish approached her too close, Ghost would show his sharp teeth and a menacing growl would be heard from his throat to Littlefinger’s apprehension. He ceased to trouble her under the branches of the Heart Tree then, but the direwolf couldn’t follow her around the castle at all times, even if Jon had nothing against it.

 She decided not to discuss Baelish with him at the moment. “If you worry so much, then perhaps you could ask one of your men to follow me around until Brienne returns?” she teased. “Or maybe Tormund! I’ve grown to like him a lot to be honest and he always has a good story to tell.”

 Jon laughed out loud, the skin in the corners of his eyes wrinkling in the sweetest way possible. Sansa blushed gently at the sight of it.

 “I’m glad to hear it, but I know for a fact he would be offended by a request of the kind. To follow some lady around her stone castle? He wouldn’t have it!”

 “What a pity!” she laughed with him, putting away her stockings, finally at ease. “But I suppose if the lady was Brienne, he’d be more than happy to oblige!”

 Jon glanced at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

 Sansa found herself giggling and it made her feel like an idiot. “Oh you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed! He is rather smitten with her… The long looks he kept giving her when we were all at Castle Black were… Well, quite _inviting_ to say the least.”

 Jon was staring at her with his mouth agape, processing this new information in his head. After a moment he was laughing again.

 “I suppose she does fit into his type!” he admitted, his wide smile drawing her full attention. “After all, one of his many names is Husband to Bears...”

 Sansa straightened in her chair at his remark. Jon must have realised how his words had sounded, for his smile dropped as soon as he spoke.

 Yes, Brienne wasn’t a typical lady, according to Brienne herself not a lady at all, much higher than most, broad and strong. But she was no bear, no matter what that strange name of Tormund was supposed to mean. Jon was already blushing, trying to explain himself. He was a king now, but with her he was still the same, not very good with words and most of the time a bit awkward.

 “I didn’t mean to say… Gods, that sounded terribly. I hold her in high regard… She’s not a typical beauty, not like you, but it’s not like it matters… Not that you’re typical- Sansa, come now, you’re making me sweat!”

 She finally let out the laugh she was holding back during his hopeless rant. “I’m not typical then?” she asked quietly, feeling her cheeks redden.

 Jon cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. “You’re, well, you’re glorious, but you now as much” his voice was hoarse and Sansa felt a sudden wave of heat spread through her body. She prayed to the gods, old and new, that he wouldn’t notice how heavily she was breathing. Jon was way too embarrassed to face her though, and a gentle knock on the door seemed to be a deliverance for both of them.

 “Who could it be at this hour?” Sansa raised herself  from her chair and went to open the door. Behind it stood Maester Wolkan, previously a maester to House Bolton, whom Jon took into their service after the battle. He was not the bravest of men, one might even call him a coward, but he was not cruel or vicious and they needed a maester at Winterfell after all. He had no love for the Boltons, especially after being a first-hand witness for Ramsay’s atrocities. Still, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to trust the man or bear any kind of sympathy for him – he reminded her too much of the time she spend as Ramsay’s “wife”.

 “My lady” Wolkan took a deep bow. “I’m glad to see I did not disturb your sleep. I’ve been seeking His Grace, but he was not to be found in his chambers…”

 “I’m here, Wolkan” Jon walked over to the them and laid a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Lady Sansa and I have both trouble sleeping, so we stayed up late, talking”. In his voice Sansa could distinguish a hint of warning - he must have noticed the maester’s bewilderment at the sight of them together, this late at night. Wolkan nodded eagerly.

 “Of course, Your Grace. If you wish, I could bring you some milk of the poppy to…”

 Jon didn’t let him finish. “Never mind that. Why were you looking for me? Did something happen?”

 “No Your Grace, it's just... A raven came from King’s Landing” the maester held out a roll of parchment with Lannister’s sigil on it. “I thought it could be a matter of too great importance to wait until the morning.”

 Jon took the letter and dismissed the maester with a slight nod of his head. Sansa could feel her heart pounding fast in her chest. What could it be? Was it possible that the news of their victory already reached King’s Landing? She watched Jon in anticipation as he removed the wax seal and began to read.

 “It’s addressed to Warden of the North, Ramsay Bolton” he muttered as his eyes traced the letter back and forth. “King Tommen is dead. As is Queen Margaery” he handed her the parchment, eyes wide open. “Cersei Lannister has crowned herself the Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 “What?!” Sansa teared the letter from his hand and quickly began to read. She couldn’t believe her own eyes. “She writes that alliance between House Lannister and House Tyrell is broken… and she bids Ramsay summon his bannermen and ride south to support the ruling house!”

 She looked at Jon completely perplexed. An image of Margaery Tyrell smiling passed before her eyes. The warmth in her expression when she said they could be like sisters.

 “How did this happen? How come they're dead?” she whispered, as if Jon could answer any of these questions.

 “I should summon a council meeting” he muttered, even more brooding than usually. She couldn’t read anything from his face.

 “In the morning” she pleaded, seeing the weariness in his face. “Truly Jon, it will be dawning in few hours, there’s no need to wake up everybody. It can wait.” She finally felt tired enough to wish for her bed. The news were shocking, but it was too late to comprehend them and King’s Landing was hundreds of leagues away. Her head was spinning and she knew she had to lay down. Jon took a moment before nodding in agreement.

 “Aye, you’re right. In the morning then.” He hesitated briefly but then walked over to her and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead. For some reason she shuddered under his touch. Jon held her close as he looked into her eyes, concern plain on his face. “Will you be able to sleep now? These news are very troubling and I know how much you’ve suffered at the hands of Lannisters.”

 “I will be fine” she answered, her voice muffled by a lump forming in her throat from all the emotions she was feeling. Jon didn’t seem to believe her.

 “If you want…” he began awkwardly, “I could stay here with you. Until you fall asleep.”

  His proposition left her completely speechless for a moment, but when all her amazement and uneasiness were gone she realised there was nothing she wanted more.

 “That would be… most sweet of you, thank you” she muttered, dropping her gaze. Jon was standing immensely close and she could feel his warmth through her robe. He smiled gently and turned away, making himself busy by tending to the fireplace once more, giving her enough time to undress to her night shift and get into bed.

 She didn’t expect him to lay down next to her and hold her, knowing how utterly inappropriate that would be, but she still felt a pang of disappointment, when he sat down before the fire, gazing into the flames. She’d only have few short hours of rest before the morning came, and the day ahead already seemed like a challenging one. But fortunately enough sleep came to her quickly, and as her eyelids were getting heavier and heavier, all she could think of was Jon’s dark silhouette against flickering of the flames.


	5. In His Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more angst and fluff you guys... and slooow burn

 “The woman is a fool if she thinks she will keep the throne.”

 Bronze Yohn Royce emptied his cup and put it down with a loud thump, the usual frowning expression imprinted on his face. They were all sitting in a council chamber, as Sansa named it, after she decided that it was more convenient to host their meetings than the Great Hall. She was sitting right next to him, her face impenetrable and seemingly indifferent.

 Jon was exhausted after his sleepless night, but he knew better than to let it show in front of everybody. Sansa had fallen asleep quick enough the night before, and before he left her chambers, he had allowed himself to stroke her head once more, relishing the steadiness of her breath and the calmness of her expression. He had wished then that he could just crawl into the bed next to her and wrap his arms around her, feeling her warmth against his body and having his nostrils filled with her lovely scent. He couldn’t though, and with last gentle kiss on her cheek he hed left Sansa to her dreams, hoping they would be sweet and peaceful.

 Now they've just broken fast with Lords Manderly, Glover, Hornwood and Cerwyn, Ser Davos, Lady Lyanna and her advisors from the Bear Island. Tormund was present as well, though Jon was well aware that the entire issue must have been a ridiculous blather to him.

 “Who cares about some southern wench and her kneelers?” Tormund muttered under his nose, but restrained from saying more.

 Lord Manderly straightened in his chair. “The question is what will she do, when our raven reaches King’s Landing and she finds out that once again the Starks rule the North and that we no longer recognize whoever happens to sit on the Iron Throne as our King.”

 Jon took a deep sigh. “If Cersei Lannister has some wits about her, she will know better than to march north with winter already here - before long it will be snowing in King’s Landing. We expressed our desire for peace between the South and the North, she’d be wise not to refuse us that much”.

Sansa stirred beside him. “I wouldn’t expect wisdom from Cersei” she declared soberly. “She’s a vicious woman and to be fair, I find it most strange that she gives no reason for Tommen’s and Margaery’s death…”

 “I thought just the same, my lady” lord Hornwood cut in. “Something definitely doesn’t feel right-”

 “If you’d let me finish, my lord” Sansa shot the man a glance, and Jon couldn’t help a little smile that sprang on his face. “I wanted to say, that despite the obvious reasons, this news aren’t exactly grievous – although we should not depend on Cersei and her reasoning, we can rely upon the fact that without House Tyrell it’ll be most difficult for her to hold the South alone.”

 Davos nodded in agreement. “Lady Sansa speaks truly. This news is more than we could’ve hoped for – without Tyrells House Lannister is now weaker than ever and it opens new options for us to-”

 The door suddenly swung open and Petyr Baelish walked in, mischievous smile on his face. Jon moved in his chair discreetly, just to be a little closer to Sansa. He knew it was unnecessary, but he couldn’t help himself.

 “Forgive me my lords, Your Grace, for interrupting, but I’m afraid I wasn’t informed about this meeting.” Littlefinger spoke calmly, but Jon knew he must have been seething. He decided to say nothing and took a low sip from his goblet.

 Yohn Royce seemed quite annoyed. “We’ve send for you Baelish, but you were not to be found anywhere near in your chambers.”

 Jon raised his eyebrows, curious about Littlefinger’s response, but the man just bowed slightly and took his place at the end of the table. “I assume it’s about Cersei Lannister and her letter?” he asked casually as he filled his goblet with water.

  _Already spinning your little web, Baelish?_

 Tormund was taken aback. “And how do you know that already?” he grunted grimly and growled at the man mistrustingly. “Are you a bloody wizard?”

Littlefinger gave him a short look filled with contempt. “I stumbled upon Maester Wolkan and he informed me of it.” It was a lie, Jon was certain, but plausible enough. He acquainted the Master with the letter’s content early this morning.

 “As I was saying…” Davos cleared his throat as he gazed at Baelish suspiciously, “with the Lannister-Tyrell alliance broken, new prospects open before us. We should send a raven to Highgarden as soon as possible.”

 “Just because the Tyrells are done playing with lions, doesn’t mean they will immediately want to join the Starks” murmured Littlefinger, his gaze falling from Jon to Sansa.

 “No, but the raven must be send regardless” answered Jon, feeling his annoyance grow already.

 The discussion went on and not for the first time he felt gratitude beyond measure for Sansa’s presence at his side. She exceled at whatever he might have lacked, choosing her words carefully and exhibiting an understanding for politics far superior to his own. The conversation, however, turned into direction that he wanted to avoid.

 “Nevertheless, we need to remember that the most vital thing now is maintaining alliance between the North and the Vale…” stated Littlefinger and Jon could tell that Sansa stiffened beside him. Lord Royce was nodding in agreement, as Littlefinger went on, staring directly at Sansa. “History and experience have proved many times, that _nothing_ straightens an alliance like bonds of marriage.”

 Everybody fell silent and Jon’s heart was pounding violently as he felt a storm brewing inside him. He tightened his grip on the side of his chair.

 Sansa was the first one to speak, as she raised her head and tilted her chin up. Jon noticed that her nostrils were flaring and she was breathing heavily.

 “Do you wish to see me married off once more, lord Baelish?” she was as courteous as ever, but he heard the steel in her voice anyway.

 “My lady…” Baelish opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn’t finished yet.

 “I’m assuming everyone here knows the atrocities my late husband has inflicted on me -  including you, seeing as you were the one filled with remorse for giving me to him in the first place?” there was a warning in her voice, and although Littlefinger turned a bit pale, he was not entirely intimidated. “Do you truly presume, lord Baelish, that I would ever want to be forced into an arranged marriage _again_?”

 Jon couldn’t help himself any longer and he laid his hand on her own, squeezing it for reassurance. He wanted to speak, to tell Baelish to go to hell, but he remembered the promise he made to her. _I can handle him, Jon._ Sansa responded to his touch automatically, rubbing her thumb against the skin of his palm.

 Littlefinger noticed that and for a moment he was too focused on their hands joined together to respond. “My lady” he contained himself finally, and filled his expression with a desperate plea that Jon would never expect to see. “You know that if I could, I would turn back time even, to spare you all the things you’ve suffered, but…”

 “Let us not concern ourselves with “ifs”, Lord Baelish” Sansa was utterly unmoved by his sleek words. “Please, get to your point.”

 Baelish tilted his head up, as if accepting her challenge. “My point, princess Sansa, is, that you’re still young, a lady of a great house and Princess of the North. Sooner or later you’ll have to marry once more. Why not _now_ , when it would be most beneficent for House Stark and the North in general?”

  “Because, lord Baelish, I would rather throw myself from the highest tower of Winterfell, than once more be married of like some broodmare, than have someone’s repulsive hands touch my body, than endure what I had at Ramsay’s hands.”

 A sudden tension filled the council chamber, as nearly everyone seemed to be way too embarrassed and distressed to keep their eyes on Sansa - they were either looking up at the ceiling or down at the floor. Even Ser Davos looked a bit flustered, taking a sip of water that lasted suspiciously long. Only Lyanna Mormont and Tormund remained collected – the lady sitting straight, scrutinizing Littlefinger with ambiguous expression on her face, and Tormund staring from Sansa to Littlefinger, his eyebrows furrowed.

 “Why must she marry?!” he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes wide open with astonishment. “She’s a bloody lady and a king’s sister, she can do whatever she wants!”

 Littlefinger didn’t even grace him with a glance, but Jon noticed that a faintest of smiles appeared on Sansa’s face for a second. Davos leaned towards Tormund and quietly began to whisper explanations into his ear, as Littlefinger kept his gaze on Sansa and nothing else.

 “Not every man in the world wants to hurt you” he said quietly. “Not every man is like Ramsay. There are men in this room even that would _never_ hurt you.”

 Jon felt his stomach turn at the sound of Littlefinger’s words, but to his bewilderment Sansa actually _smiled_.

 “You’re right, lord Baelish” she said nodding her head, her voice filled with sweetness that was more than suspicious. “There are men in this room that would never hurt me.”

 But as she spoke the last words she turned her head to Jon ever so slightly, and he felt sudden warmth spread across his body, catching her gaze for a split moment.

  _You deserve to be loved._

 What was she making him feel just with this one look, he couldn’t clearly comprehend. But what he knew was that she acknowledged him as the one person in the world who would not hurt her, and it was a message, subtle as it was but still, to Petyr Baelish and everyone present. Jon tightened his grip on her hand.

 Littlefinger wouldn’t see her meaning however, and continued his argument with unfailing confidence. “For sure His Grace is one of the people who have your best interest at heart, seeing as he is your brother, but what I meant was-”

 “I’m well aware what you meant, lord Baelish” Sansa interrupted him immediately. “But I will hear no more of this.”

 Something resembling anger passed through Littlefinger’s face as he once more tried to pick up the discussion with a menacing “my lady”

 “Enough” Jon stood up abruptly, eyeing Baelish warningly. “Princess Sansa spoke her mind on the matter and I will not consent to any match that is not her wish.”

 “Your Grace…” Littlefinger was seething, but it was Yohn Royce who did not let him speak any further.

 “You’ve heard the King, Baelish. You’re the one who gave Lady Sansa to the Boltons, without even consulting me or any other lord in the Vale – one would think you’d know when to be silent.” Jon couldn’t help a little smirk. Lord Royce was growing on him more and more with every day. His animosity towards Baelish was apparent, and that was something he could easily relate to.

 Littlefinger wasn’t ready to give up yet. “The alliance between North and the Vale…”

 “…is strong already” growled Jon, eager to end the discussion. “Lord Arryn and Princess Sansa are bonded by blood. There is no connection stronger than that.”

 Baelish pursed his lips as his eyes narrowed with hatred. Jon didn’t drop his gaze and kept his eyes on the man, until it was Littlefinger who turned away his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 A snowstorm was raging outside the walls of Winterfell, and as she was sitting in her warm solar waiting for Jon, Sansa couldn’t help but worry about poor Brienne and Podrick, somewhere out there in the unforgiving cold. She prayed that they would’ve found shelter by now.

 She and Jon were supposed to eat supper together, but since Jon was running late the food was already getting cold. She didn’t mind, really – waiting for him filled her with pleasant anticipation and excitement of some sort. She missed him when he wasn’t around and felt untroubled happiness when he was.

 The guard walked in, distracting Sansa from her needlework. It was Jon’s jerkin in her lap -  she was mending a little rip below the underarm. She found that tending to his clothes gave her great pleasure, so she asked him to always deliver clothes that needed mending only to her. Jon seemed pleasantly surprised at her request and was more than eager to oblige - Sansa didn’t know if it was his desire to make her happy or his own joy from the fact that she wanted to take care of him. In any case, every time she handed him a mended or a newly-made garment, a wide smile appeared on his face, and he thanked her whole-heartedly.

 “My lady” the guard took a deep bow. “Petyr Baelish is here and wishes to speak with you.”

 She felt sick immediately, but she knew there was no avoiding Littlefinger now, especially after what had happened in the morning, during the council meeting.

 “Let him in” she ordered reluctantly and returned to her work, desperately trying to calm down.

 She didn’t look at him as he walked into the room, focusing all her attention on the leather of Jon’s jerkin. “Lord Baelish” she muttered, working her needle through the thick material. “What can I do for you?”

 “I told you to call me Petyr, love” he answered, his whispering voice giving her unpleasant goosebumps.

 “What can I do for you, Petyr?” she resigned, still refusing to look at him.

 “I think we both know, sweetling.”

  _You’ll have to be more specific, Littlefinger._ She would not easily give in, she’d play stupid as long as she could.

 “I don’t think I do. Won’t you sit down?” she pointed her head at the chair usually occupied by Jon and Baelish took it willingly, taking her invitation as a good sign.

 They sat in silence for a moment. Sansa was not inclined to speak first whatsoever, and she pretended that she hasn’t noticed his stubborn gaze following the steady moves of her hands.

 “It seems, sweet Sansa, that you and your brother have already forgotten who saved you in the battlefield, when the Bolton armies where crashing the one you’ve managed to raise” he spoke sweetly, and even though she wasn’t looking at him, she knew he was smiling.

 She smiled as well, as sweetly as she could. “Oh, on the contrary I must say. It was my dear cousin Robin who graciously send his armies to my aid.”

 She finally raised her head and shot Baelish a cold look. He swallowed her words but didn’t let them unsettle him.

 “No, love. It was me, and you know it well.  Don’t you remember the little letter that you’ve send me? Don’t you remember what it said?”

 “Of course I remember” she tilted her head up, eyeing him angrily.

 “You promised I should be rewarded. I hope you intend to keep that promise, sweetling” Littlefinger stood up and began to slowly make his way towards her. She got up from her chair immidiately, taking few steps back. That didn’t discourage him, however. He was a step away from her when he finally paused.

 “There’s only one thing that I want, Sansa” he whispered. “And I will have it. You know you can’t deny me forever, if you want our alliance to last. One word from me would be enough for the Vale army to abandon you. One word from me would be enough for them even to take Winterfell from you. But I don’t want either of these things, believe me sweetling, I want you to be happy.”

 She was breathing heavily, as he laid his hand on her waist and pulled her closer, his eyes locked on her lips. “Don’t deny me Sansa…” She wriggled herself out of his embrace and pushed him away.

 “You’re so generous lord Baelish!” she spat out contemptibly. “But I don’t think one word from you would be enough to sway all the lords of the Vale. Words are feeble things. And I myself would have a song or two to sing if need be.”

 Baelish smirked and his eyes were shining with both mirth and lust. “Sweet girl… How much have you improved at this game, I’m proud of you, truly. But it’s a risky path you’re taking here and it doesn’t guarantee your success. I’d advise you to think better of it, for those things are not as easy as they seem” he said vaguely, eyeing her from top to bottom. She felt naked under his gaze.

 “I’m a tenacious man, Sansa, and a day will come that you will want me. But even my patience has its boundaries. Do not reject me, sweetling.” He was about to move forward, she knew that, but the doors suddenly opened and Jon walked in, tensing up at the sight of Littlefinger.

 One look was enough for him to make out the situation and Sansa never felt more relieved. She also never felt more drawn to Jon than in this very moment. He looked magnificent and intimidating in his dark furs, dangerous and flushed with anger. There was rage in his eyes, and presence of Ghost at his side made him look even more frightening. Sansa felt her heart beat fast and nothing was sweeter than knowing he was like this _for her_ , and only for her. She looked at Baelish and saw only a cockroach that needed to be stomped on.

 “What is going on here?” Jon was staring at Littlefinger and his voice was thick with fury. Sansa felt an unknown sensation spread from her heart straight through her body and started to breath heavily as she looked at Jon, so handsome, with his eyes darkened by anger.

 “Lord Baelish was just leaving” she answered, eager to be left alone with Jon as soon as possible. An ugly grimace appeared on Littlefinger’s face but he left without a single word, not even glancing at Jon as he passed by him.

 Sansa was in Jon’s arms as soon as the doors closed after Baelish.

 “This bloody scumbag... Are you all right?” he muttered, scrutinizing her face.

 Her voice was hoarse when she answered. “I’m now'”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Sansa would not have him leave after they’ve eaten their supper and spent some time together before the fire. She insisted he was to stay with her.

 _I_ _know I won’t fall asleep without you, Jon,_ she said and he knew she would not yield.

 Not that he wanted anything else than to stay with her, it just made him feel terribly embarrassed and a bit anxious – he didn’t know how far he could trust himself with Sansa. Her request was already making him feel hundreds of things that he knew he wasn’t supposed to feel. If only she knew… Would it be the end of everything? She was his sister, as he kept reminding himself stubbornly, and all his yearning and longing was nothing but a brotherly love. 

 But then she entered the bedchamber after taking a bath, wearing but a white night dress. Although it was nothing like the thin nightshift, that he caught a glimpse of the night before to his own distress, it still left him with dry mouth and racing heartbeat. It covered her well enough, but that wasn’t the point - she looked sensational, the fabric falling down from her arms like a veil and her auburn hair burning against the snow-like shade of the garment. He realised he’d never before seen her wearing only white and decided that if it were up to him, all her dresses would be like this one from now on.

 “Jon” she walked over to him and took his hands into hers. “I don’t want to leave Winterfell. I don’t want to go back to the Vale. I don’t want to be Littlefinger’s wife, his lover, his… whatever it is he’d make of me.”

 He cupped her cheek and Sansa closed her eyes at the touch.

 “You won’t. You know I won't allow it.”

 “Yes. And I know I’ve said that I can handle him… And I can. But I still need to hear this from you. I don’t even know why.”

 “I won’t allow it” he repeated and leaned forward to kiss her temple. “I won’t allow it” - another kiss on the cheek. “I won’t allow it…” his gaze fell to her lips and for a moment he thought that the madness would take him, that there was nothing that could stop him now – the pull was so strong, and she was so close, so warm and so lovely… But somehow he managed to overcome it, cursing the world and the gods, hating himself for letting her go and for desiring her at the same time.

 He thought he saw disappointment on her face as he pulled away, but it was way too unbelievable to trust it.

 It took all his willpower to collect himself. “I could stay by the fire once more, until you fall asleep…”

 She only shook her head, making it extremely hard to maintain his cool. “I know it would be improper Jon… But I wanted to ask you… Could you just lay down next to me?” her voice was quiet and quivering and he felt his heart breaking at the sound of it. He must have been going mad, yes, this would be the end of him, _she_ would be the end of him. How could he deny her this, when he’s been dreaming of holding her close at night himself?

 Jon didn’t know how in the world he kept his mind clear. “If someone would see… A servant, or… Sansa, I don’t want you to be an object of-”

 “We could lock the door” she proposed hoarsely, her cheeks blushing in the loveliest way. “I just don’t want to be alone, Jon, that's it.”

 Was there even a point in arguing, when he knew he wanted the same thing? Well, among other things… He brushed the thought aside and just nodded in agreement. As she was getting into bed, he locked the door to ensure them secrecy and took of his jerkin.

 Sansa was all covered in furs, laying on her back and staring into the canopy, as he crawled into the bed from the other side. When he laid down, all tense, she just moved closer to him and laid her head against his chest. Jon had no idea how he would survive this night and for a moment he thought that his uneasiness would never pass. But then she spoke, very quietly, and he could hear that she was on the verge of tears –  “You know, I thought that nobody’s arms would ever feel as strong and safe as fathers. Sometimes I still see him, kneeling before the crowd in King’s Landing, telling the lies that I thought would save him. I still see his head at night, impaled on a spear, with Joffrey ordering me to look at it for as long as it would please him…” she paused for a heartbeat and Jon automatically began to caress her head, wishing that he could take all her terrors away.

 “And Ramsay… Sometimes I freeze in fear, because I’m sure that I can hear his voice in the corridor” she tilted her head up to face him, her blue eyes shining with held-back tears. “I thought I’d never feel safe again. You proved me wrong, Jon.”

 How was it possible for her to once more make his heart break? Actions spoke louder than words, he knew, and there was nothing he could say, so he simply wrapped his arms tightly around her, hoping that he’d go on making her feel safe forever.


	6. Wishing For A Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, I'm so sorry it took me such a long time to update, I've hit a writer's block!; anyway here comes the next chapter, hope you like it!

 “My lady, that was the last of them.”

 Brienne clasped her hands behind her back and smiled gently. “Maybe you should retrieve to your solar and have your supper there.”

 It’s been four days since Brienne and Podrick finally returned from their long journey to Riverlands. They came back to her exhausted and cold but whole, and Sansa felt relief beyond measure to finally see them. She hadn’t realised how badly she’s been worried until she saw Brienne dismount her horse and kneel before her, with Podrick following her lead as always. Their journey back had been full of obstacles, starting with how difficult it was for them to leave Riverrun in the first place.

 “No, I’ve agreed to sup with our good lords here today.”

 It’s been a long day – she spent it in the Great Hall, meeting with supplicants from Winter Town and beyond, without Jon by her side –he has set off with a large company the day before to put an end to a band of Bolton outlaws, that has been ravaging villages south from Winterfell. Sansa advised him to stay in the castle and assign a commander for the expedition, but in this matter he wouldn’t listen. There was fervency in him, eagerness to bring every single Bolton men to justice, that wouldn’t allow him to pass the task to anyone else.

 And so the previous evening was the first one to break the custom they’ve developed together– of Jon supping with her in her solar, and after spending some time with her by the fire holding her until she fell asleep. He hasn’t allowed himself to stay until morning anymore though, convinced that soon enough the servants would pick up on him spending his nights outside his own chambers. It was fair enough, Sansa decided, and she dared not wish for him to change his mind – the arrangement suited her quite well, especially considering how embarrassing the first morning was for both of them – she felt so awkward as they stumbled out of the bed, mumbling nonsense to each other. In darkness of the night it didn’t seem so strange – but the morning light made everything more sharp and real, and Sansa had no idea what actually made her bold enough to make Jon stay with her for the night. There was a certain kind of tension developing between them, and as it kept growing and laying hard on her heart, Sansa began to fear that there would be no release for it. At times she thought she was going mad. Like back then, the first night that Jon’d stayed with her – there was a moment when she thought he wanted to kiss her... He was so good and so close, laying kisses on her temple, on her cheek. Though it must have been her imagination of course, it still made her heart race with yearning.

 Brienne cleared her throat to get her lady’s attention. “Is lord Baelish joining the company as well?”

 Sansa couldn’t help a little smile. Brienne fussing over her was soothing but at the same time a little annoying. She was at her side always, and Sansa was convinced that before he left, Jon had talked to her sworn knight and arranged that she was to be protected always, especially from Littlefinger. That was a fine thing to witness, truly – Brienne in presence of lord Baelish, bristling and hostile, with a permanent scowl on her honest face.

 “Probably, yes” she answered, looking at Brienne with amusement. “I should go get changed for the supper.” Sansa got up from the lord’s chair and caught a glimpse of Brienne pursing her lips. Much like Jon, her sworn knight would be more than happy to put Littlefinger to the sword. Maybe no words from the king were even needed – Brienne have resented Baelish probably from the moment when she’d encountered both of them in an inn, after they’d left the Eyrie. When Sansa had rejected her service.

 “Brienne” she laid her hand on the woman’s arm. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

 The Maiden of Tarth took a deep sigh. “Nothing that I haven’t already said, my lady” she muttered.

 As they were making their way towards the Great Keep, a young servant run up to them, desperately trying to catch his breath and informed them that the King and his company have returned. Sansa froze for a moment in bewilderment - she didn’t expect Jon to return so soon, and as she made for the courtyard to greet him, she felt giddiness filling her body – it’s been only two days but she’s already come to miss him terribly. Brienne trod behind her faithfully as she entered the courtyard, with the snow crunching under their feet.

 It was so loud there, with horses neighing and people calling. The moonlight was shimmering in the snow and torches were being lit all around. The general commotion took Sansa aback, as men kept moving around her in great haste. She couldn’t see Jon anywhere, but she noticed that more than one of his men were battered, some of them severely wounded.

 In the crowd she spotted Davos Seaworth, handing his mare’s reins to a servant, his face flushed and sweaty.

 “Ser Davos!” she called out and he turned towards her immediately.

 “My lady!” he forced his way through the crowd to meet her. As he paused before her, she noticed new cuts and bruises on his face. “What happened? Why are you back so soon?”

 “We encountered them sooner than we expected… Apparently two or three bands joined together… There was a great fight, but we managed to overpower them, however not easily.”

 There was only one thing she needed to know. “Where is Jon?”

 “His Grace has already went to his chambers and asked for the maester. He’s wounded, my lady, but not severely.”

 Not severely. Sansa wasn’t sure what Seaworth meant by that, and she dared not enquire. She would find out soon enough for herself, she decided, balling her fingers into fists. She composed herself, determined that no matter how worried she was at the moment, people surrounding her would not see it show.

 “Brienne” she uttered stiffly. “Please send word to our guests and apologize, I will not sup with them today.” With that she spinned on her heel and directed her steps towards the Great Keep, trying very hard to keep her pace steady.

 

* * *

 

 

 Maester Wolkan was examining the wound on his chest, when the door to his bedchamber swung open and Sansa walked in, her cheeks pink form the frost. Jon suddenly realised that he wasn’t comfortable with her seeing him like this – half-naked and wounded, with all his scars out in the open. He was furious with himself for getting injured in the first place - he shouldn’t have let this man get so close to him, and he should have parried his strike with greater force. It was frustrating, lying like this before Sansa, with a sluggish maester tending to his wounds. To be fair, Sansa seemed to be angry when she first looked at him, as if she was about to raise one eyebrow and mutter with annoyance “I told you so.” But then she saw the long, bloody cut above his ribcage and she slowly approached his bed, her face softening. He managed a faint smile to greet her.

 “Is it bad?” she asked, but Jon wasn’t sure if the question was directed at him or the maester. Wolkan took it upon himself to answer it though.

 “Needs some stiches, but if it doesn’t get infected His Grace will be fine, my lady.”

 Sansa gave a nod and spoke no more, carefully watching the maester as he proceeded with his operations. Jon kept his gaze on her, studying her face and its most subtle expressions – Sansa tried to remain cool, with her lips pursed tight, but as Wolkan began to stich his wound her concern became more than obvious – it was sweet and amusing at the same time, to see her bite her lip, probably holding back comments on the poor maester’s execution of what she exceled at – only when Jon unintentionally gave out a small hiss of pain, her mouth opened immediately and her hand stretched forward, as if to take the needle from the masters hand. But she collected herself instantly, a little blush colouring her face.

 “I’ll take it from here, Maester Wolkan” she ordered when the man was finished with his stiches.

 Wolkan took a bow and left the room with a little reluctance, muttering indications as to keeping the wound and bandages clean.

 Sansa unfastened her fur cloak, revealing a grey dress embellished with subtle embroidery around the neckline, stylized into branches of a weirwood tree. It flattered her lovely shape perfectly and Jon took in the sight of her with all the worship that he knew was forbidden to him, stirring with uneasiness as she sat down next to him and began to prepare cloth strips for his bandage. Her silence was unsettling and watching her like that made him ache _,_ in pain both devastating and sweet, one that was utterly unrelated to his wounds.

 The silence grew around them and laid hard on his heart, so in a desperate attempt to break it Jon uttered the stupidest words he could think of.

 “So how are those lyseni silks from Baelish serving you?”

 Gods be damned, there was jealousy in his voice and Sansa heard it for sure. She shot him a short glance. “What use could I possibly have for silks during the winter?” she snarled. “Sit up, Jon, I will put the bandage on now.”

 What has he done to deserve this torture, Jon did not know, but having Sansa repeatedly work her hands around his torso took all his willpower to contain himself. Her long hair kept tickling his bare skin and he could feel her warm breath on his chest. Gods, she was so close to him and he was half-naked. Jon closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to remain cool. When she was finally done with the bandages, she gave him a gentle push to make him lie back once more. Neither of them spoke and as suffocating tension rose between them, Sansa, very slowly, laid her smooth hand on his chest and Jon felt his heart jump into his throat. Her delicate fingers were tracing the dark marks covering his skin – the tenacious testimonies to betrayal, to treason. To the empty darkness lingering in his heart. _For the Watch,_ he remembered. _For the Watch._

He swallowed hard trying to focus at the present, but it did no good. Sansa’s touch was setting him on fire and his breath was becoming more and more shallow.

 Finally she laid her hand on the scar right above his heart, where Olly had delivered the final stab. Her eyes locked on his, she began to gently caress the spot with her thumb and Jon couldn’t help a shiver that went through his body.

 “I’m sorry, Jon” she whispered, her eyes shining. He covered her hand with his own and hold on to it tightly.

 “It doesn’t matter anymore” he said and managed a smile to comfort her. But Sansa wouldn’t be easily comforted right away. “It does to me,” she murmured. “I nearly lost you to them.”

 She dropped her gaze and the corners of her lips went up a little. “You know, a moment ago I was angry with you for getting hurt today,” she confessed, blushing helplessly. “I sometimes wish that I could just keep you here with me always-” she hesitated, seeing his gaze following her faithfully, “-I know it’s utterly stupid of course, considering… Everything that’s coming. But still… The thought of losing you terrifies me.”

 She fell silent and if he could, Jon would gladly give into all the ideas that were flowing through his mind for soothing her, for showing her that he doesn’t wish to ever part from her, but they weren’t exactly appropriate nor worthy of a brother. Those ways of soothing Sansa would be reserved for a husband, if one day she’d consent to take one. One thought led to another and Jon found himself clenching his fists out of hatred for an imaginary man, a mere idea of someone touching Sansa making Jon’s blood boil.

 He shoved those thoughts aside and let Sansa’s words pass through him, filling his heart with bliss. Gods be good, she was so sweet and gentle and he loved her for that – the kindness hidden under the steel that he admired as well.

 “We both suffered terrible losses” he murmured, looking up at her beautiful face that was filled with heart-breaking sadness. “Maybe the gods will let us be now.”

 He didn’t truly believe his own words, but he clung to them regardless.

 “I want justice, Jon” she whispered suddenly. “Justice and vengeance. It’s so strong in me, this desire… Sometimes it feels like it will overwhelm me. I dream of it, but I know it will never come. Justice for our family. Cersei, Walder Frey, Ilyn Payne…”

 Jon remained silent, letting her words flow. “He beheaded father… With father’s own sword, with Ice…” she tried to remain calm, but her voice broke at the end. Jon felt anger rising in his chest.

 “And Janos Slynt,” Sansa cleared her throat and a hateful grimace appeared on her face. “He thrown father down for Payne to behead him.”

  _Please, my lord. Mercy._ Jon’s head was spinning as he remembered the very day, back at the Wall. _I’ll go, I will…_

 Sansa bowed her head down. “Gods, Jon, it’d been so horrible to see these people nearly every day at court, being unable to do anything, entirely hopeless…” She closed her eyes, as if relieving those horrors once more. Jon realised that this might have been the first time that she confided in someone about it. He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing.

 “Janos Slynt…” he muttered finally, watching her with care. “He was under my command at Castle Black. And for disobeying my orders… I beheaded him.”

 The effect his words had on Sansa was beyond anything Jon’d expected. She straightened abruptly, her eyes widened in shock and nostrils flaring with a sudden sensation. Her expressions kept changing as she looked at him, a whole range of emotion displayed on her face.

Her gaze kept wandering from his eyes to his lips, and back to his eyes again, until finally she looked down at her lap, brow furrowed, as if trying to explain something to herself.

 “Sansa…” he reached out to her, worried. “Are you alright-”

 “I wished it would happen!” she spat out, her voice high and filled with emotion. Worried by the violence of her agitation, Jon sat up and put his arm around Sansa, feeling her slightly tremble under his touch. “I wished that someone would throw him down and cut his head off. I wished… I wished that some hero would,” she murmured.

 There was devotion in her eyes as she kept searching his face. Devotion, and longing, and gods be good, desire. He understood, at least he though he understood what him killing Janos Slynt meant for her.

 “You were the one I’ve been wishing for then” she whispered, raising her hand to her lips, eyes still locked on his.

 Jon was entirely paralyzed – by the tension between them, by her closeness and her words, by his racing heart. And then Sansa leaned forward, her gaze falling to his lips and as Jon felt a jolt of desire shot straight through his body, he knew they would just keep pushing the boundaries of madness further and further until it would break him apart.

 For this was madness, it must have been. Sansa’s face so dangerously close, her eyes shining and her breath so shallow. If she’d kiss him right here, right now, he’d be lost forever. With one kiss she’d make him hers. No, he already was hers, with all the misery and torment that it brought him.

 But a shade of painful realisation passed through her face - she looked almost as if she was about to cry. And then she did something that he wouldn’t expect in a million years – she lowered her head to his chest and laid a warm, sweet kiss to the scar above his heart, breaking him into pieces. It was as if she wanted to heal him, to take away all his pain with her lips. Then she slowly streightened on the bed, giving him a look that was all tenderness and warmth, pretending not to notice how fast his chest was moving.

 "You need to eat, to get some rest" she sighed and stood up from the bed. 

 "Are you going to leave me?" he asked hoarsely, praying in his head that she wouldn't. Only now he realised how tired and sore he was.

 Sansa smiled gently at his question. "I will make sure you get something warm and nourishing to eat" she said, as she headed towards the door. Before leaving, she turned around to look at him once more. "And then I'll stay and take care of you, Jon."

  _She'd make a wonderful wife to someone worthy of her_ , Jon realised desperately as he watched the door close behind her, pain gripping his heart with iron strenght. _But it will never be me._

 


	7. A Snow No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it took me almost two weeks to finish this chapter! i'm so sorry for keeping you waiting guys, sometimes it's just so hard to get it right!

Her maids did everything just as she asked them to. Water in her copper bathtub was hot and scented to her liking, and she submerged into it eagerly, letting it enfold and soothe her fatigued body. There was something deliciously pleasurable in being surrounded by this heat, this humidity and the light from the fire, while winter was raging outside the stone walls of Winterfell. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned back, feeling her body slowly relax under the surface.

Her thoughts raced to Jon immediately, to him and Howland Reed, who’d finally arrived at Winterfell to meet and pledge his allegiance to King in the North.

Everything was changing around her. But a few days ago a raven came, bearing news from the Twins, news of Walder Frey’s death, his and his two sons’. It was supposed to make her feel glad and satisfied, but it didn’t. At least not as much as she thought it would. No one took lord Frey’s head and no one sewed it to some animal’s body. No one came to where Robb’s body was buried and said “rise now, king Robb, for your murdered is dead.” It didn’t work like this. All Freys in the world could die for all she cared, but it still wouldn’t give her her brother and her mother back. There was a depressing realisation for her, that no matter how great vengeance or justice would be, it would never fill the hole that’s came to be in her heart.

She brushed the thoughts aside and tried to focus on the present. It must have been hours since Jon and Howland Reed retreated to Jon’s chamber to talk and Sansa felt anxiety beyond measure not knowing what they were actually talking about. Jon wanted her there of course, but lord Reed insisted on speaking with Jon alone. As time passed she grew more and more nervous, since she couldn’t even imagine what kind of business required so many hours to be discussed. She kept reminding herself that it was a good thing that lord Reed finally came to Winterfell, that as more people aligned themselves with Jon, Littlefinger’s power over her grew weaker. Still, her apprehension would not disappear.

She knew she was running out of time – Baelish’s impatience and discontent was becoming greater with every day and soon enough he’d act to finally get what he wanted.

“My lady” one of her maids, Alyssa, entered the room and curtsied before her. “Lord Baelish is waiting in the hallway, he wishes to speak with you.”

The audacity of this man, to bother her this late in the evening! Sansa gave out an exasperated sigh. _And as if I’d ever let him in again after what happened last time,_ she thought grimly.

“Tell him that I’m ready for bed and will not see anybody” she ordered, as the other girl, Mariah, slowly began to scrub her back. She was a bit clumsy, but Sansa didn’t say a word, for a split second allowing a low thought to cross her mind – a wish that it was Jon there with her, helping with those ministrations.

To be fair she thought of Jon all the time these days, and for her own sanity’s sake she was resigned not to chastise herself for that. There was simply no escaping him, and as long as she kept her longings in her heart and didn’t act on them everything would be all right. No one would ever know her thoughts, no one was this powerful. She could keep all her feelings and desires to herself, and when it became too painful to bear, she’d simply grit her teeth and hold back tears as she always did.

At least she finally stopped lying to herself, finally stopped denying the simple and dreadful fact, that she wanted Jon, yearned for him. After he told her about Janos Slynt there was nothing else for her to do but admit it. She could give in to shame and overwhelming guilt, but instead she decided that it was a thing entirely independent of her. Her mind had no impact whatsoever on what her heart desired and the gods could not blame her for it. And she wasn’t Cersei Lannister to act on those desires, as she kept reminding herself.

She knew that sleep definitely wouldn’t come that night. After she left the bathtub and dressed for bed she began to slowly pace through her room, way too restless to sit down and occupy herself with needlework, which usually worked best. She had no idea how long she has been waiting, when finally she heard a knock on the door.

It was Podrick Payne, hands clasped behind his back, hesitation evident on his face.

“My lady,” he muttered, blushing slightly at the sight of her in her night dress. “His Grace would like to speak to you… If you’d be kind enough to visit him in his chambers.”

Sansa swallowed hard, anxiety rising in her heart even more.

“Is Howland Reed still there?” she enquired. For some reason her voice wavered.

“No, my lady. He left some time ago.” Podrick must have noticed her apprehension and he smiled to her reassuringly. There was something in his round, honest face that made her smile back at him.

“Thank you, Pod” she said softly. “You’re free to go now.”

He left the chamber and for a moment Sansa stood still, trying to collect her thoughts. So Jon was ready to finally talk to her about whatever he and lord Howland have been discussing for hours. It must’ve been a matter of great importance. Something told her it could be life-changing even. The thought send shivers down her spine and she scolded herself for being absurd and paranoid.

She turned around and looked at herself in the mirror, at her long, auburn hair, so vibrant against the white of her night dress. Should she change before going to Jon? Nonsense, he’d seen her like that before. They’ve laid together in one bed for gods’ sake, Jon with his arms around her, guarding her from all the terrors that night held. Suddenly she felt a burning ache for his touch, an ache that she couldn’t help. Lately she has come to a certain realisation, that despite all the pain it would cost her, she’d have to put an end to this sleeping arrangement of theirs. If she wanted to avoid becoming Cersei Lannister there was no other way. Who knew how long she could control herself? In the beginning it’s been all about Jon’s presence, about comfort and sense of security. But with each night something unspeakable grew inside her, something that she have not known before.

Sansa put on her slippers and left her chambers, heading towards Jon’s door. The man guarding it let her pass without a word. When she entered, she found Jon sitting before the fire, staring into the flames that were the only source of light in the darkness swallowing the room.

His posture worried her immediately – his back hunched, head bowed, shoulders down. When he looked up at her he seemed much, much older than he actually was. He seemed exhausted, miserable. Broken-hearted.

“Sansa,” he murmured hoarsely and she noticed that his eyes were reddened. Was it possible that he’s been crying? She walked over to him quickly.

“Are you alright, Jon? What happened?”

It seemed like he didn’t hear her. He was looking at her now in a manner she’s never witnessed before and the way his eyes darkened at the sight of her send a jolt of wild excitement straight through her body. And then suddenly she felt like crying, from all her longing and desperation.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered suddenly, his voice muffled and thick. That took her aback, for Jon never spoke so straight-forwardly when it came down to complementing her.

“Tell me what happened, Jon” she demanded.

And so he did.

 

* * *

 

 

 Snow was crunching under her feet as she walked through the castle grounds, the moon and the stars lightning up the darkness of the night. Perhaps it wasn’t very wise to leave the Keep at this hour, perhaps she should’ve retreated to her chambers, especially considering that her head was spinning and she began to feel nauseous. But she couldn’t stay inside, she just wouldn’t bare it. The walls of Winterfell seemed to shrink around her and she longed for some open space. Luckily enough the night was cold but peaceful, not a single cloud on the starry sky.

The godswood was all darkness and silence when she fell to her knees before the Heart Tree, paying no mind to the wet snow, that would soon soak the skirts of her night dress. Sansa pulled her furs tighter around her shoulders and looked up at the face that she knew so well.

She had no idea what she was expecting coming here. Her mind was racing, her thoughts were an incomprehensible mess, and her heart… She couldn’t even begin to describe what was happening in her heart.

The only important thing, the only thing in the world now was Jon, Jon and the truth that Howland Reed brought with him to their castle and to their lives. Was it the truth really? Jon being not Eddard Stark’s son, but his nephew, Jon being Lyanna Stark’s child. Jon being not Sansa’s brother, but cousin. She inhaled deeply, feeling hot tears fill her eyes. Soon enough they would be freezing on her cheeks.

She didn’t know what she was feeling. She couldn’t distinguish a single emotion. All she knew was that everything would change now and a storm was raging inside her, causing her head to spin and ache badly.

A recognition of a particular emotion came to her suddenly – fear. Gods, she was afraid. She felt as if she were on a verge of losing him now, now that he was no longer her brother. Everything around her was collapsing, tumbling down with an enormous impact. Would he leave her now? Would he abandon her? Deep down in her heart she knew he wouldn’t, not now, not ever, but she feared it all the same.

He was a Targaryen. The thought made her ache even more, as if he was slipping away, not belonging to Winterfell, to the North, to her. Never to her. And yet he was Lyanna Stark’s son just as he was Rhaegar’s. She said that to him, back in his chamber, in a hopeless attempt to soothe his pain. She wanted to soothe him so badly, truly, but no words that she spoke to him would help. He’d have to make peace with himself first. And with father… Her father and his uncle.

What she felt now towards lord Eddard was beyond comprehension as well. There was overwhelming love in her heart at the thought of how much he had sacrificed to keep Jon safe, how much he had loved him and cared for him. It was so alike him, really, to keep a promise with such solemnity and sacrifice, despite all costs. That was Eddard Stark that she knew, and once again she felt a terrible longing awakening in her heart. But there was also pain as she thought of her mother, of how much she had suffered, and of how much Jon had suffered because of the unhealed wounds of lady Catelyn’s heart.

She told Jon that nothing would have to change, that they could go on as they have, but her words seemed to hurt him even more. And she knew very well they weren’t true, that nothing would be as it used to. And what would the northern lords do if they found out? To hope that they’d still want Jon for their king was beyond foolish. No one could know.

But amidst all her fear and suffering and confusion there was something else, something that she was ashamed to admit to. It was relief, and maybe hope even. Jon was not her brother and it pained her. Jon was not her brother and it filled her heart with joy. She would not be damned, cursed by the gods. Tears finally escaped her eyes and she laid her hand on the trunk of Heart Tree, its white bark rough against her skin. And in her heart she finally began to call out to the old gods. _Bless him,_ she begged. _Bless him, bless him, bless him. Help him. And help me._

A sound of somebody’s footsteps on the snow torn Sansa away from her prayer. She wished it would be Jon, but even before she turned her head to see, she knew who it really was.

“It pains me to see you cry, my sweet Sansa.” Littlefinger emerged from the trees into the clearing. He was like a ghost, never ceasing to haunt her. “What brings you here this late at night?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Sansa snapped angrily. She was in no humour to suffer him now, to play his subtle game of lies and understatements. She wanted either Jon, or to be left alone. Baelish came closer, his eyes locked on her and Sansa got up from her knees immediately.

“It’s full moon tonight and it has me sleepless…” he whispered.

Sansa couldn’t help herself. “I thought only maidens are affected by full moon in such a way,” she spat out. Littlefinger’s nostrils widened for a split second in rage but he collected himself immediately.

“Apparently not, sweetling. You see, I’ve been wandering around the castle for some time now. And I must admit, a man can overhear many things when some people think that they are the only ones awake.”

Sansa felt her heart sink at his words.

_No, you couldn’t have._

She tried to remain calm.

“What are you talking about?” she muttered stiffly, desperate not to drop her gaze.

“Oh, sweet girl, you know very well of what I speak.” Baelish approached her even closer and took a strand of her hair in between his fingers. She was unable to resist, frozen in fear.

“I believe that in light of those new circumstances you find yourself in, discretion is very important to both you and your brother. I mean if he is to keep his crown…” Littlefinger laid his other hand on her hip and wetted his lips, making her cringe. “ Am I not right, sweetling?”

 

* * *

 

 

The fire in his chamber nearly went out and as darkness was deepening around him, Jon found himself regretting his choice not to follow Sansa to the godswood. He thought he wanted to be alone, he thought she needed some space as well – both shaken to the core by Howland Reed’s testimony, neither of them knowing what to do with it. But this solitude of his, those shadows surrounding him, they held something dangerous, ominous for him. He realised it was no good to dwell here, with his mind and heart darkening as gloomy thoughts were passing through his head.

Jon rose from his chair, his limbs heavy as he moved, leaving his chambers, with Ghost pacing by his side.

 _What does it matter who sired you?_ Sansa’s words, filled with pain and desperation as she tried to lull him in his sorrow, rang in his head as he made his way through the sleeping castle. _You loved Eddard Stark and called him your father, and that is what’s important._

But her words were not true, not entirely. It did matter who his real father was and she knew that well enough. Rhaegar Targaryen. The Dragon Prince. Everything Jon’d believed, everything he’d build his life around was a lie. He was unable to fully acknowledge the truth, it was so bizarre, so strange. Targaryens belonged to the South, they rode fire-breathing dragons, had hair shining like silver and extraordinary, purple eyes. Jon was a part of the North, and the North was a part of him. He was ice and snow, in his looks so alike lord Eddard Stark. And there was Ghost, his direwolf, the embodiment of his belongingness to house Stark. And right now, though still in the dark, he felt more like his mother’s son than his real father’s. Lady Lyanna. His entire life he has been yearning for his mother, to know who she was, to know her name at the very least. He never knew that finally getting to know the truth about her would mean losing his father and his own identity.

Ned Stark’s bastard. That’s who he’s been all his life. But not anymore, it was taken away from him, with nothing given in return. Who was he now? A Targaryen? An heir to the Iron Throne? He scoffed at the thought, the sound drawing Ghost’s attention. Jon felt the direwolf’s wet nose rubbing against his hand and he responded with a quick stroke of the beast’s thick fur. He had never in his life felt more lost, yet Ghost’s quiet presence made it easier to bear. Ghost would remain by his side, no matter who his father was.

And then there was Sansa, of whom Jon had never been more afraid. Or rather it was himself of whom he had never been more afraid, and of what he might do once he couldn’t control himself any longer. Back in his chambers she told him that nothing had to change. He knew she said that to comfort him, but what he had felt then was actually overwhelming disappointment. It made Jon furious with himself – that even in a moment like this he couldn’t stop thinking of holding her, of kissing her, of touching her. Of loving her.

He entered the godswood heading immediately towards the Heart Tree, Ghost still close by his side, making no sound on the snow. And as he drew closer, he noticed two people under the ancient weirwood tree, one of them being unmistakably Sansa, the colour of her hair still visible in the light of moon and stars, the other - a man, whom Jon recognised just as fast.

Baelish muttered something, but Jon couldn’t understand what, and for a split second he only watched as Littlefinger laid his hands on paralyzed Sansa. Then everything happened at once – Baelish attacked her with fierceness, his mouth aggressive as he tried to taste every bit of exposed skin, his hands moving angrily up and down her body. Something must have snapped in Sansa suddenly, cause she began to wriggle, desperately trying to free herself from the man’s grip and Jon felt nothing but a blind fury as he strode forward, grabbed Baelish by the neck, pulled him away from Sansa and pinned against the Heart Tree. Ghost was growling and Sansa was shouting something in raised voice, but he couldn’t distinguish her words, his rage burning in him, deafening. All he wanted was to squash Baelish’s head, to kill him here and now.

“How dare you lay your filthy hands on her…” he muttered through gritted teeth, tightening his grip on Littlefinger’s neck. The man’s vile face was turning white now, his eyes widened in fear.

“Jon, stop!” Sansa laid her hand on his arm. She was shaking, he could tell, her voice tight and brittle. “You can’t kill him, Jon, please!”

He kept his hands on Littlefinger’s throat, trying to think, as Sansa kept begging him to stop. Then he finally let go, though not without tightening his grip one last time.

Baelish fell to his knees, coughing desperately.

“If I see you near her one more time, I swear I’ll kill you, Littlefinger” he growled. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind about killing you.”

Sansa was breathing heavily, as she watched Baelish get up from his knees. The man was eyeing Jon with hatred, swallowing words that he undoubtedly wished he could spit out. Jon laid a hand on Sansa's shoulder and stared gloomily as Littlefinger slowly walked away, his hands balled into fists.

“I won’t let this go, Sansa” Jon muttered and she turned to face him. “He crossed the line. You’re the princess and he assaulted you…”

She shook her head and laid a finger on his lips to silence him. He thought he’d drop dead in the very moment, his heart jumping to his throat. Her hand didn’t leave his face and she cupped his cheek, her eyes filled with pain.

“You don’t understand, Jon” she sighed. “He knows of your heritage. He overheard our conversation and he’ll want something for his silence.”

Jon felt his anger awakening once more. “You should’ve let me kill him…”

“A murder in the middle of the night with only your sist-, only me as a witness? How would you explain that to the other lords of the Vale?”

“I don’t care!” he shouted, raising his voice more than he wanted to.

“You should care, Jon, you’re the king!”

“I don’t care about the damn lords, Sansa, all I care about is you!”

She fell silent, taken aback by his agitation. Jon tried to collect himself and took a moment to calm down before speaking again.

“If I don’t surrender to his demands, he’ll use this information against you,” whispered Sansa. “Against us.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Jon took her hand and squeezed it for reassurance. ‘He won’t have you. I won’t allow it, remember?”

She smiled sadly. “There might be no other choice. Jon, they won’t have you for their king once they find out…”

Violent objection rose in his heart at her words and the strength of it made him pull her closer to him, his eyes searching hers in disbelief.

“Do you really think I’d trade you for some crown? They can have it, I’m not letting you go.”

Her eyes were shining when she asked the question. “Why not?”

Jon’s heart was racing as he opened his mouth to speak, hopelessly searching for an answer that could replace the truth. He failed miserably.

There was desperation and plea in his voice, he knew, when he finally responded to her with a question of his own.

“Don’t you know?”

He wanted her to say something, anything that would end his torment, but she didn’t say a word. Instead she leaned forward, just like she had back in his chamber, the evening when he had returned to her wounded. It was cold and silent all around them and all he could see and think of was her, her blue, shining eyes, pink flushed cheeks and her lovely lips, slightly opened, as she gazed at him, waiting.

She remaind silent, keeping her eyes on him and the only sound escaping her was her uneven, shallow breath. Jon gazed at her lips, his whole body aching to finally stop resisting, to give in to what he has been fighting for weeks. 

“Sansa,” he murmured her name, his voice hoarse and low as he leaned forward as well, the pull stronger than ever.

And then she bit her lip slightly, and the sight of that was for some reason more than he could handle - he just couldn't resist any longer, and with her name on his lips he finally kissed her, slowly and gently, the taste of her lips sweeter than he had imagined during his countless, sleepless nights.

Sansa responded to the kiss with such fervency it would take him aback if he wasn't entirely lost in her, her mouth opening for him immidiately. She gave out a muffled whimper as he pulled her close to him, having her body tight against his own. He buried one of his hands in her hair, the other one around Sansa's waist, keeping her close, as they both gave into the kiss passionately, not getting enough of each other.

It was something wild really, all their pent-up tension and longing finally released, their moves chaotic and needy.

She was heavenly to touch, to kiss, to taste. But then, as he stopped for breath between kisses, Jon caught a glimpse of the Heart Tree behind them, the face carved in its bark crying red tears, as always. A memory of Eddard Stark surfaced in his mind and with it overwhelming guilt.

It took all his willpower to pull away now, when she was so willing, so close and beautiful, her lips swollen from the kisses that he laid on them. But he did pull away and a shadow passed through Sansa's face as she looked at him.

"Jon..." she murmured pleadingly, but he wouldn't let her finish.

"We can't" he said, cursing himself in his head. "We can't Sansa, you know that."

The pain in her expression was killing him.

"Jon, you're not... you're not my brother," she whispered, her eyes glistening.

"And how long have we known that?" he muttered. Sansa's face was contorted with sorrow and he couldn't bear it. "I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me..."

 She looked as if he'd slapped her.

"Don't apologize!" she shouted, eyes widened with agitation. She inhaled deeply, pursing her lips tightly. It seemed like ages, waiting for whatever she was about to say. But when she did speak, her voice was calm.

"Don't apologize, Jon," she repeated simply.

 

 


	8. All The Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again guys, I'm so sorry for taking this long, but I was actually moving and had a lot of stuff to do, plus my summer is over and there is not so much time for writing. i hate myself for keeping you waiting, hope you'll enjoy it!

 Her lips still burned like fire. The fire of Jon's kiss, his fervency and passion. They would burn as long as she kept reliving the events of the previous night, Sansa knew that very well. Still, the memory was too fresh in her mind to be swept aside and she just gave in to it, more lost than ever but at the same time filled with sensation so very sweet, that she couldn't get enough of.

 Last night in the godswood, after few failed attempts at igniting a discussion with him about what'd happened between them, she gave in and let Jon escort her to her chambers. He kept his distance and would not touch her anymore, as he walked two steps behind her, silent and brooding. Before leaving her to the confidence of her room, he squeezed her arm ever so slightly, in an utmost brotherly manner, which actually annoyed her greatly. It seemed like he was trying to make up for what had happened, for overstepping a line, for going too far. She couldn't shake off a feeling that it was his stupid honor taking hold of him - after all he apparently didn't care about what she'd told him - that she didn't want his apologies nor regretted what had happened.  

 Despite all her vexation, to Sansa's own surprise she had fallen asleep immediately, and her dreams were strange, sweet and ominous at the same time. The morning brought insufferable longing for Jon, for his lips on her skin and his hands on her body. But later during the day it would only grow into deep frustration once she realized that he was avoiding her. Maybe she wouldn't notice his behavior if it weren't for how accustomed she's grown to his constant and gentle attention - usually during the day he would make all the attempts to see her, to make sure she was doing alright, even despite his countless duties. Now he was nowhere to be found and Sansa felt utter misery, as she tried to guess what was going on in his head. She herself was annoyed and angry, obviously, but at the same time she felt distressed, worried for him beyond measure - he had just found out the truth of his identity and parentage - if those new circumstances had her confused, she couldn't even begin to imagine what he was going through. 

 But she could be there for him, if only he'd let her! She'd kiss him again and again, until all the trouble disappeared from his heart. Gods, how she longed for him. But the day passed and there was still no sight of Jon and Sansa began to wonder if he'd even make an appearance at the feast they were having to honor lord Reed's arrival. He had to - people would take it as a slight if he didn't show himself. He was the king and men needed their king. She hoped Jon realized that well enough.

 She felt so lost herself, she didn't know where to turn or what to do. About Baelish, about Howland Reed's testimony, about Jon. All she knew was that they had to be united at all costs - there was no other way for them, and Jon avoiding her was the worst thing that could happen.  

 "That's it, my lady. You look very beautiful."

 Sansa flinched at the voice of Alyssa, who had just finished lacing up her gown. Her words were no empty flattery, Sansa admitted to herself as she gazed into the mirror. It was one of the dresses that Littlefinger gave her. Although she had sworn to herself that she would never wear any of them, the circumstances have changed, and Sansa decided that any way in which she might appease Baelish after his encounter with Jon was worth a try. Yes, she hated him with all her heart, especially after what had happened the previous night. But she loved Jon more and wearing a stupid dress for his sake was something she was willing to do.

 It was ivory, lustrous and with very tight bodice. The cleavage was much more exposed than she was used to and when she thought of Littlefinger eyeing her in the dress it actually made her sick to her stomach. But there was another notion as well - that Jon would have to finally face her during the feast and he'd see her looking like this.  __Glorious_ _  ... Wasn't it the word he once used to describe her? Sansa felt excitement rising in her belly.  __He has to be there. He__ _ _has to_ ___see me looking like this._ _ She scolded herself for vanity, but there was no erasing that excitement once it arose. She decided that if he doesn't come to escort her to the feast, she will come a little bit later, she couldn't even tell why. 

 Gods, wouldn't it be sweet. And maybe a small punishment for him for avoiding her. Oh yes, she could punish him. Ignore him, not look at him, not even once. Wouldn't it drive him crazy? But it was Jon, her Jon. Lost, and miserable, and so very good. And she has grown too much to play this kind of games with him. She was so angry, but at the same time she knew she could never be this cruel to him. He might have regretted their kiss, but at least now she knew that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. There was no need for a punishment, nor an excuse for it.

 All she wanted was to see his eyes darken at the sight of her. Just like they have before.

 

* * *

 

 As people were filling the Great Hall, Jon found himself completely dumbfounded by Sansa's unexpected absence. Usually she was always there next to him from the beginning of every feast, yet this time the chair next to him was empty and he couldn't help but worry what might have happened. To be fair he did use to escort her from her chambers to the Great Hall for every feast they had hosted, and since he didn't come this night she might have felt offended. What if she was waiting for him in her room? Jon stirred in his seat, troubled, as he accepted some lord's greeting without even paying attention to his words.

 Maybe she decided not to come, to punish him – after all he's been acting like a child the whole day and kept avoiding her – there was no way that she hasn't noticed that, she was just too clever. Then again, she was the lady of Winterfell and Jon knew that she took her responsibilities very seriously. She'd appear soon enough.

 He felt like an idiot for avoiding her, but there was too much happening around him all at once and he had no idea what to do about any of it. The fact that he dared to kiss her yesterday, that he crossed the invisible line laid before him, filled him with dread and loathing. Mere moment passes after he learns that Sansa's not truly his sister and he's already tasting her with his lips, grabbing her hair, pulling as close as possible. He never thought he could be this weak. But the amazing thing was that she actually kissed him back, with eagerness matching his own – and that single fact was the reason he just couldn't bear to be alone with her now – knowing that she wanted him as well made him wonder if there was anything that could stop him from ripping her dress of her and making her his. He worried that after what had happened, he could never keep his hands off of her anymore. He was completely undone, he was hers to the core. But he had to keep a clear head, although  it seemed like a completely impossible task, since he'd never felt more lost. His mind was filled with thoughts of Sansa, of lord Eddard, of his mother Lyanna, of prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He wished he could just accept it, understand it, comprehend the idea of who he really was. There was terrible longing in him, a wish to see father one more time, to talk to him about everything, about the secrets he had to keep, the sacrifices he had to make. He'd like to see lady Catelyn as well, to see her face as she found out the truth about him. _There was never a reason for her to hate me so much_ , he thought and felt pain clutch his heart with iron strength. _If only father had told her who I really was - maybe she could've been like a mother to me._

 _Mother_. She was lying deep down in the ground, buried in the crypts of Winterfell – a woman beautiful, lively and willful, as he had heard people describe her. Now the only reminiscence of her was a stone cold statue, guarding her resting place. Suddenly he remembered the black nothingness that engulfed him when he died and Jon felt empty despair rising in him.

 He looked around – Sansa was still not there, but as he scanned the Hall, Jon noticed Baelish sitting at one of the tables, his eyes narrowed as he glanced at Jon hatefully.

_You're lucky to still be alive, Littlefinger, don't you forget that._

 But then Baelish stood up from his chair and casually approached the High Table, taking a deep bow as he paused before Jon.

 "My king!" he exclaimed, allowing himself a faint smile. "Is lady Sansa joining us tonight? I hope she hasn't fallen ill?"

 Jon barely restrained himself from jumping to Littlefinger's throat. He collected himself and rose from the chair. "She hasn't" he said, and slowly made his way around the table to face Baelish. He then laid his hand on the man's shoulder, almost as if they were friends.

 "Lord Baelish," Jon spoke quietly, tightening his grip on Littlefinger's shoulder, "I thought I made myself clear yesterday. If I were you, I wouldn't even speak the princess's name in my presence. You're lucky I didn't kill you."

 The hubbub in Great Hall was too great for anyone to actually hear what he was saying, but Jon could feel eyes watching them.

 Baelish seemed to have dropped all the pretenses. "It would be wise of you, bastard, not to threaten me. Sansa will be my wife, and you will give your consent to the match. You will announce the engagement in the sennight and I will not breathe a word of your true parentage."

 A blind fury took hold of Jon's mind and he probably would have thrown Littlefinger to the ground, but suddenly the Great Hall fell silent and a wide, disgusting smile sprang on Baelish face as he looked towards the entrance. Jon turned around to find out what caused that kind of contentment and saw Sansa, who just entered the hall, greeting people and accepting their regards. Dressed in a beautiful white gown she looked so ravishing that it actually took him aback. She was truly devastating in it, and Jon could feel his body reacting to the sight, completely in awe of her beauty. He swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off her. And then she looked directly at him, her blue eyes piercing him with pain, and yearning, and worry.

 “I'm glad to see she has some use for my dresses.” The sound of Littlefinger's words made Jon slowly turn around to face him once more, inhaling deeply in rage. “This one will be perfect for the wedding,” Baelish smiled again, regarding Jon with contempt. “Your Grace,” he bowed slightly and walked away, smile not fading from his face.

 

* * *

 

 

 Sansa's presence by his side turned out to be a torture he could barely stand, since he couldn't touch her, nor take her in his arms, nor kiss her until they were both out of breath. All he could do was sit stiffly, eat, drink and talk with Howland Reed or Davos– anything that could prevent him from losing control. He tried not to look at her – looking at her made everything a hundred times harder, for she was never more enticing, more luscious, with her breasts more exposed than in her usual dresses, with her lips so red and skin so smooth.

 He knew she was angry with him, even though she was nearly as kind as ever – she inquired after his day and told him a little bit of her own, but Jon could tell she was hurt and that there was an invisible wall between them.

 He was trying to remain calm after the conversation with Littlefinger, but with every moment his anger and fear grew greater, and the fact that nearly every man present was staring at Sansa with craving didn't help at all. He had never before felt more jealous and he just couldn't contain himself any longer, so since lord Reed and Davos were deep in a conversation, he seized the opportunity.

 “Why are you wearing one of Littlefinger's dresses?” he muttered without looking at her. He could feel Sansa's gaze on him, as she took her time before answering.

 “To please him,” she said angrily, and that answer enraged him so much he finally looked at her. 

 “To _please_ him?” he repeated after her, seething with jealousy. “You're trying to please him after what happened last night?”

 She shot him a hard look. “So something actually happened last night?” she snarled bitterly. "I dare say, you've been acting as if nothing happened at all."

 That silenced him and for a moment none of them spoke - Sansa only grabbed her goblet and emptied it quickly.

 “I shouldn't have been avoiding you today,” he whispered finally.

 “No, you shouldn't have,” she snapped with annoyance. He took a moment to look at her, at her furrowed brow, her pursed lips. “Sansa, it's all just too difficult...” he murmured and her expression softened at his words.

 “Running away from me won't make anything easier,” she said hoarsely.

 “I'm not running away-”

 “Are you not?” Sansa stirred in her seat. “I have to disagree.”

 Jon clenched his fists. A part of him knew she was right, but the other part was just too tired and confused to admit that.

 “If you'll excuse me,” he muttered, rising from his chair. “I need to go get some air.”

 Sansa looked away without saying a single word, and he felt his heart get heavier and heavier with each step he took towards the door, swiftly dismissing people rising to salute him.

 Once outside he climbed the stairs leading to the battlements and there he took in the dark landscape of the North. It was snowing again – heavy clouds covered the sky and there was not a single star to be seen. Jon inhaled deeply as he gazed up at the vastness of it, trying not to think about Sansa in her white dress, with her anger and pain and the words of truth.

 He heard the heavy doors of Great Hall open and for a moment the sounds of the inside reached his ears. He thought it was Sansa coming to talk to him, but as he turned around, he saw Davos, with his hands clasped behind his back, and expression filled with questions.

 “You left rather abruptly,” the Onion Knight muttered, eying Jon soberly. “Is everything all right?”

 “Why wouldn't it be?” Jon answered grimly.

 “Something seems to be bothering you, that's all.”

 Jon didn't answer, but Davos actually kept going. “You're the king. I'm your advisor. Perhaps if you told me what's wrong I could advise you.”

 Jon looked at him for a moment silently, weighing his words.

 And then he told him everything - about Howland Reed and his revelations, and about Littlefinger with his threats and his claims for Sansa's hand. He hoped Sansa could forgive him – he desperately needed advice from a person who was not directly involved in the matter and Davos has proven his loyalty over and over again.

 And now Seaworth was eyeing him with an ambiguous expression on his honest face, and his silence had Jon impatient and tense.

 "If I could, I'd cut Littlefinger's throat and be done with it" he muttered, still not getting any response from Davos. "But as Sansa insist, we can't risk losing the alliance we've established with the Vale."

 Davos glanced at him dubiously and finally spoke. "You're a Targaryen. You said it yourself, if the northern lords find out about this you will loose more than the Vale alliance.”

 That was it. No exclamations of surprise, no consternation or disturbance caused by the news of his parentage - Jon felt true gratitude for Davos's reserved reaction.

 The Onion Knight continued after a moment of reflection. “Since Littlefinger knows, I dare say, there's no way that you'll manage to keep your true name a secret, no matter what you give him."

 Jon gritted his teeth. "I know. Sansa knows it too. Those are just facts I'm already aware of. But do you have any advise, any council?”

 Seaworth cleared his throat. "I might have a council to offer you, but I doubt you'll like it."

 "I don't have to like it," said Jon, feeling exasperation slowly rise in his heart. He was frustrated, and tired and utterly helpless. He felt like a child, not a king. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ Maester Aemon's words rang in his head with a powerful timbre.

 Davos nodded his head. “We have to assume that sooner or later the truth will come out. If so, the best thing to do is to make it known yourself and take advantage of it.”

 “How do you imagine I take advantage of it?” Jon nearly laughed at the knight's words.

 Davos looked at him warily. “Well... by bonds of marriage of course.”

 Jon felt his heart stop. “You don't mean...”

 “Lady Stark is not your sister, but your cousin...” Seeing Jon's expression Davos seemed to grow more uncertain with each word he spoke. “She has the name and the claim. Together you could rule as King and Queen in the North.”

 Jon took a deep breath. “And that is your advice?” he asked after a while. His thoughts were racing in his head, a mix of rage, hope and disbelief. To have Sansa for his wife? The thought was beyond ridicoulous and unbelieveable.

 Seaworth tilted his chin up, glancing at Jon seriously. “Yes. It seems quite obvious, actually.”

 “Damn you, Davos. Are you mad? I will never… I would never-” he paused, completely dumbfounded. “I will not save her from one marriage by forcing her into another. And with a man she used to call brother, I won't...”

 “Were you really that close? As siblings?” A faint smile passed through Davos's face and that actually drew Jon's attention.

 “It doesn't matter. It doesn't.”

 “You'd be good to her.” The Onion Knight sighed. “Much better than Baelish, you can't deny that.”

 Jon didn't answer. He couldn't answer that. He wanted this too much.

 Seaworth came closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Just think about it, Jon,” he said softly, before descending from the battlements, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

  _She'd make a wonderful wife for somebody one day,_ he remembered.

 Gods, how he wanted this. How he wanted her.

 

 

 

 


End file.
